*    ' 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


\ 


,    .' 


•  ./* 


THE 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 


OF 


REAL    LIFE. 


BY  T.  S.  ARTHUR. 


BOSTON: 
L.    ?.    CROWN   &    CO.,    61    CORNHILL, 

PHILADELPHIA: 
J.   W.   BRADLEY,   48   NORTH  FOURTH   ST. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1851,  by 
J.   W.  BRADLEY, 

(n  the  Office  of  tho  Clerk  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  Stated,  in 
•nd  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


PREFACE. 


To  all,  as  they  pass  through  the  world,  come  "  light  and 
shadow."  Though  the  sun  may  be  in  the  heavens,  clouds 
often  intervene,  and  cast  deep  shadows  about  our  footsteps. 
But,  it  is  a  truth  which  we  cannot  too  deeply  lay  to  heart, 
that,  in  our  life,  as  in  nature,  the  exhalations  which  form 
the  obscuring  cloud  arise  from  below.  They  are  not  born 
in  the  pure  heavens,  but  spring  out  of  the  earth  beneath. 
If  there  was  nothing  evil  in  the  mind,  there  would  be  no 
cloud  in  the  sky  of  our  being, — all  would  be  "  eternal 
sunshine." 

If,  therefore,  in  this  book  the  lights  and  shadows  are 
blessed;  if,  in  a  word,  the  clouds  often  hang  heavy  and 
remain  long  in  the  sky,  the  fault  is  in  those  whose  histories 
we  have  written.  But  the  sky  does  not  always  remain  dark. 
As  the  heart  becomes  filled  with  better  purposes  through 
the  trials  and  pains  of  adversity,  or  comes  out  purer  from 
the  furnace  of  affliction,  the  clouds  disperse,  and  the  blessed 
sunlight  comes  again.  Lay  this  up  for  your  consolation,  all 
ye  who  are  in  trouble  and  affliction,  and  look  hopefully  in 
the  future.  It  will  not  always  remain  dark  as  in  the  present 
time. 


1 117-104 


PUBLISHER'S  INTRODUCTION. 


ACCOMPANYING  this  volume,  is  a  brief  auto-biography.  In 
circulating  Mr.  Arthur's  "  Sketches  of  Life  and  Character/' 
the  publisher  met  so  frequently  with  an  expressed  desire  to 
know  something  of  one  whose  writings  had  made  him  a  gene 
ral  favorite  that  he  was  led  to  solicit  a  personal  sketch,  to  go 
with  a  new  collection  of  his  writings.  It  is  but  due  to  the 
author  to  say,  that  his  concurrence  in  the  matter  was  not 
without  considerable  reluctance.  From  this  sketch  it  will  be 
seen  that  Mr.  Arthur  is  a  self-made  map,  and  that  he  has 
gained  his  present  enviable  position  through  long  and  patient 
labor,  and  against  the  pressure  of  much  that  was  adverse  and 
discouraging.  In  his  elevation  he  has  this  pleasing  reflection, 
that  in  seeking  to  gain  a  high  place  for  himself,  he  has 
dragged  no  one  down,  but  rather,  sought  to  carry  along,  in  his 
upward  way,  all  who  could  be  induced  to  go  with  him. 

The  portrait  given  in  this  volume,  was  engraved  from  one 
recently  painted  by  Lambdin,  and  is  considered  a  very  good 
likeness.  Mr.  Arthur  is  now  in  his  forty-second  year,  and 
looks  somewhat  younger  than  the  artist  has  represented  him. 

For  the  information  of  those  who  wish  to  procure  Mr. 
Arthur's  Temperance  Tales,  the  publisher  would  state,  that  in 
"  Lights  and  Shadows  of  Real  Life,"  are  included  all  the 
stories  contained  in  the  recently  issued  edition  of  "  Illustrated 
Temperance  Tales,"  besides  nearly  two  hundred  pages  of 
additional  matter,  thus  making  a  larger,  more  miscellaneous, 
and  more  acceptable  book  for  all  readers. 


BEIEF    AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 


Is  compliance  with  the  earnest  request  of  the  publisher  of  this  volume, 
I  have,  with  a  reluctance  that  I  find  it  difficult  to  overcome,  consented  to 
furnish  a  brief  sketch  personal  to  myself.  Although  my  name  has  been 
constantly  appearing  for  some  twelve  or  fifteen  years,  yet  I  have  lost 
none  of  that  shrinking  from  notoriety  and  observation  which  made  me 
timid  and  retiring  when  a  boy.  The  necessity  to  write  as  a  means  of 
livelihood,  and  to  write  a  great  deal,  has  brought  me  so  frequently  before 
the  public,  that  I  have  almost  ceased  to  think  about  the  matter  as  any 
thing  more  than  an  ordinary  occurrence  ;  but,  now,  when  called  upon  to 
write  about  myself,  I  find  that  the  edge  of  a  natural  sensitiveness  is  quite 
as  keen  as  ever.  But,  I  will  call  the  feeling  a  weakness,  and  try  to  re 
press  it  until  I  have  finished  my  present  task. 

I  was  born  in  the  year  1809,  near  Newburgh,  Orange  County,  New 
York ;  and  my  eyes  first  opened  on  the  beautiful  scenery  of  the  Hudson. 
My  earliest  recollection  is  of  Fort  Montgomery,  some  six  miles  below 
West  Point,  on  the  river,  where  my  parents  resided  for  a  few  years  pre 
vious  to  1817.  In  the  Spring  of  that  year,  they  removed  to  Baltimore, 
which  became  my  place  of  residence  until  1841,  when  I  came  to  Phila 
delphia,  where  I  have  since  lived. 

My  early  educational  advantages  were  few.  There  were  no  public 
schools  in  Maryland,  when  I  was  a  boy,  and,  as  my  father  had  a  large 
family  and  but  a  moderate  income,  he  could  afford  to  send  his  children  to 
school  only  for  a  limited  period.  He  knew  the  value,  however,  of  a  good 
education,  and  did  all  fcr  us  in  his  power.  Especially  did  he  seek  to 
inspire  his  children  with  a  regard  for  religious  truth,  and,  both  by  precept 

(5) 


6  BRIEF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 

and  example,  to  lead  them  into  the  practice  of  such  thing8  as  were  honest 
and  of  good  report.    In  all  this,  he  was  warmly  seconded  by  a  mother 
who  still  survives,  and  forwhom,  it  is  but  just  to  say,  that  her  children  fe 
the  tenderest  regard-and  well  may  they  do  so,  for  they  owe  her  much. 

At  school,  I  was  considered  a  very  dull  boy.     My  memory  was  not 
retentive,  and  I  comprehended  ideas  and  formulas  expressed  by  others  i 
a  very  imperfect  manner.   I  needed  a  careful,  judicious,  and  patient  teach- 
cr  who  understood  the  character  of  my  mind,  and  who  was  able  to  come 
down  to  it  with  instruction  in  the  simplest  and  clearest  forms;  thus  help- 
ing  me  to  think  for  myself  and  to  see  for  myself.     Instead  of  this,  I  was 
scolded  and  whipped  because  I  could  not  understand  things  that  were 
never  explained.    As,  for  instance,  a  slate  and  pencil  were  placed  in  my 
hands  after  I  had  learned  to  read,  upon  which  was  a  sum  in  simple  addi 
tion  for  which  I  was  required  to  find  an  answer.   Now,  in  the  word  «  Ad 
dition,"  as  referring  to  figures,  I  saw  no  meaning.     I  did  not  comprehend 
the  fact,  in  connexion  with  it,  that  two  and  two  made  four.     True,  I  had 
learned  my  «  Addition  Table,"  but,  strangely  enough,  that  did  not  furnish 
me  with  any  clue  towards  working  out  the  problem  of  figures  set  for  me  on 
my  slate.     I  was  then  in  my  ninth  year ;  and  I  can  remember,  to  this  4ay, 
with  perfect  distinctness,  how  utterly  discouraged  I  became,  as  day  by  day 
went  by,  and  still  I  had  not  found  a  correct  result  to  any  one  of  my  sums, 
nor  gained  a  single  ray  of  light  on  the  subject.     Strange  as  it  may  seem, 
I  remained  for  several  months  in  simple  addition  before  I  knew  how  to 
sum  up  figures,  and  then  the  meaning  of  addition  flashed,  in  a  sudden 
thought  upon  my  mind,  while  I  was  at  play.     I  had  no  trouble  after  that. 
During  the  next  week,  I  escaped  both  scolding  and  "  belaboring  "  (a  fa 
vorite  phrase  of  my  teacher's),  and  then  passed  on  to  subtraction.     Fire 
minutes  devoted  to  an  explanation,  in  some  simple  form,  of  what  "  Addi 
tion  "  meant,  would  have  saved  me  the  loss  of  months,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  pain,  both  mental  and  bodily,  that  I  suffered  during  the  time. 

With  such  a  mind  and  such  a  teacher,  it  is  no  wonder  that  I  made  but 
little  progress  during  the  few  years  that  I  went  to  school.  Beyond  read 
ing  and  writing,  Arithmetic  and  English  Grammar  included  the  entire 
range  of  my  studies.  As  for  Arithmetic,  I  did  not  master  half  the  com 
mon  rules,  and  Grammar  was  to  my  mind  completely  unintelligible. 


BRIEF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.  7 

In  the  end,  my  teacher  declared  that  it  was  only  wasting  time  and 
money  to  send  me  to  school,  and  advised  my  father  to  put  me  out  to  a 
trade.  This  was  done.  I  left  home  and  entered  upon  an  apprenticeship 
shortly  after  passing  my  thirteenth  year. 

If  I  found  it  extremely  difficult  to  comprehend  ideas  as  expressed  in 
ordinary  written  forms,  I  was  not  without  thoughts  of  my  own.  I  had  an 
active  mind,  and  soon  after  entering  upon  my  apprenticeship  the  desire  for 
knowledge  became  strong.  As  food  for  this  was  supplied,  even  though  in 
a  stinted  measure,  the  desire  gained  strength,  and  I  began  a  system  of 
self-education  that  was  continued  for  years  afterwards.  Of  course,  the 
system  was  a  very  imperfect  one.  There  was  no  one  to  select  books  for  me, 
nor  to  direct  my  mind  in  its  search  after  knowledge.  I  was  an  humble 
apprentice  boy,  inclined  from  habit  to  shrink  from  observation,  and  pre 
ferring  to  grope  about  in  the  dark  for  what  I  was  in  search  off,  rather  than 
intrude  my  wants  and  wishes  upon  others.  Day  after  day  I  worked  and 
thought,  and  night  after  night  I  read  and  studied,  while  other  boys  were 
seeking  pleasure  and  recreation.  Thus,  through  much  discouragement, 
the  years  passed  by ;  and  thus  time  went  on,  until  I  attained  the  age  of 
manhood,  when,  defective  sight  compelled  me  to  give  up  the  trade  I  had 
been  acquiring  for  over  seven  years. 

Beyond  this  trade,  my  ability  to  earn  a  living  was  small.  My  efforts 
at  self-education  had  been  guided  by  no  definite  aims  in  life.  I  had  read, 
studied  and  thought,  more  to  gratify  a  desire  for  knowledge  than  to  gain 
information  with  the  end  of  applying  it  to  any  particular  use.  The  con 
sequence  was,  that  on  reaching  manhood,  I  entered  the  world  at  a  great 
disadvantage.  My  trade,  to  learn  which  I  had  spent  so  many  years,  could 
not  be  followed,  except  at  the  risk  of  losing  my  sight,  which  had  failed  for 
the  three  preceding  years  with  such  rapidity  that  I  was  now  compelled  to 
use  glasses  of  strong  magnifying  power.  I  had  but  slight  knowledge  of 
figures,  and  was  not,  therefore,  competent,  to  take  the  situation  of  a  clerk. 
At  this  point  in  my  life,  I  suffered  from  great  discouragement  of  mind. 
Through  the  kind  offices  of  a  friend,  a  place  was  procured  for  me  in  a 
counting  room,  at  a  very  small  salary,  where  but  light  service  was  required, 
and  where  I  found  but  few  opportunities  for  acquiring  a  knowledge  of 
business.  He*-*!  I  remained  for  over  three  years,  almost  as  much  shut  out 


8     .  BRIEF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

from  contact  with  the  business  world  as  when  an  apprentice,  and  with 
plenty  of  time  on  my  hands  for  reading  and  writing,  which  I  improved. 

The  necessity  for  a  larger  income  caused  me  to  leave  this  place,  and 
accept  of  one  in  which  a  higher  ability  was  required.  In  1833  I  went  to 
the  West  as  agent  for  a  Banking  Company;  but  the  institution  failed  and 
I  returned  to  Baltimore,  out  of  employment. 

During  all  this  time,  I  was  devoting  my  leisure  moments  to  writing,  not 
that  I  looked  forward  to  authorship  as  a  trade — nothing  could  have  been 
more  foreign  to  my  thoughts ; — I  continued  to  write,  as  I  had  begun, 
prompted  by  an  impulse  that  I  felt  little  inclination  to  resist. 

At  this  point  in  my  life,  I  was  induced,  in  association  with  a  friend  who 
was  as  fond  of  writing  as  myself,  to  assume  the  editorial  charge  of  a 
literary  paper.  And  here  began,  in  earnest,  my  literary  labors,  that  have 
since  continued  with  only  brief  periods  of  intermission. 

As  an  author,  I  have  never  striven  for  mere  reputation ;  have  never 
sought  to  make  a  name.  Circumstances,  over  which  I  had  little  control, 
guided  my  feet,  and  I  walked  onward  in  the  path  that  opened  before  me, 
not  doubting  but  that  I  was  in  the  right  way.  If  other  employment  had 
offered;  if  I  had  received  a  good  business  education,  and  been  able, 
through  that  means,  to  have  advanced  myself  in  the  world,  I  would,  like 
thousands  of  others  who  had  an  early  fondness  for  literary  pursuits,  soon 
have  laid  aside  my  pen  and  given  to  trade  the  best  energies  of  my  mind. 
But  Providence  guided  my  feet  into  other  paths  than  these.  They  were 
rough  and  thorny  at  times,  and  I  often  fainted  by  the  way ;  yet  renewed 
strength  ever  came  when  I  felt  the  weakest.  If  my  earnest  labor  has 
not  been  so  well  rewarded  in  a  money-sense  as  it  might  have  been  had  I 
possessed  a  business  education  at  the  time  of  my  entrance  upon  life,  my 
reward  in  another  sense  has  been  great  Though  I  have  not  been  able  to 
accumulate  wealth,  I  have  gained  what  wealth  alone  cannot  give,  a  wide 
spread  acknowledgment  that  in  my  work  I  have  done  good  to  my  fellow 
men.  This  acknowledgment  comes  back  upon  me  from  all  directions, 
and  I  will  not  deny  that  it  affords  me  a  deep  interior  satisfaction.  Could 
it  be  otherwise  1  And  with  this  heart-warming  satisfaction,  there  arises 
ever  in  my  mind  a  new  impulse,  prompting  to  still  more  earnest  efforts  in 
the  cause  of  humanity. 


BRIEF    AUTOBIOGRAPHY.  9 

My  choice  of  temperance  themes  has  not  arisen  from  any  experience 
a  my  own  person  of  the  evils  of  intemperance,  but  from  having  been  an 
eye  and  ear  witness  to  some  of  the  first  results  of  Washingtonianism,  and 
seeing,  in  the  cause,  one  worthy  the  best  efforts  of  my  pen.  The  tem 
perance  cause  I  recognized  as  a  good  cause,  and  I  gave  it  the  benefit  of 
whatever  talent  I  possessed.  And  I  have  the  pleasant  assurance,  from 
very  many  who  have  had  better  opportunities  to  know  than  myself,  that 
my  labor  has  not  been  in  vain.  Thus  much  I  have  ventured  to  write  of 
myself.  Beyond  this,  let  my  works  speak  for  me.  I  can  say  no  more. 

Philadelphia,  May,  1850.  T.  8.  A. 


This  work  will  contain  over  Five  Hundred 
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regular  subscription  price. 

J.  W.  BRADLEY. 

N.  B. — Subscribers  are  not  obliged  to  receive 
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scription. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  FACTORY  GIRL 13 

THE  TWO  PICTURES 37 

BRANDT  AS  A  PREVENTIVE 43 

THE  TEMPERANCE  PLEDGE 58 

TIME,  FAITH,  ENERGY 74 

FLUSHED  WITH  WINE 92 

SWEARING  OFF 109 

THE  FAILING  HOPE 129 

TAKING  TOLL 142 

THOU  ART  THE  MAN 150 

THE  TOUCHING  REPROOF * 154 

THE  TEMPERANCE  SONG 160 

THE  DISTILLER'S  DREAM 165 

THE  RUINED  FAMILY 172 

THE  RUMSELLER'S  DREAM 222 

HOW  TO  CURE  A  TOPER 246 

THE  BROKEN  PLEDGE 252 

THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN 282 

JIM  BRADDOCK'S  PLEDGE 297 

WINE  ON  THE  WEDDING  NIGHT 323 

THE  ELEVENTH  COMMANDMENT 337 

THE  IRON  WILL , 350 

A  CURE  FOR  LOW  SPIRITS 364 

THREE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR 369 

I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT 383 

THE  FIERY  TRIAL .m 393 

THE  SISTERS 441 

THE  MAIDEN'S  ERROR 461 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Pag« 

STARTING  FOR  LOWELL,         .  .  .  .27 

FIRST  FRUITS  OF  THE  PLEDGE,    ...  68 

THE  DUEL,  .....      101 

ANTIMONIAL  WINE,       ....  138 

DEAD  IN  THE  ALMS-HOUSE,  .  .  .  .  176 

CURING  A  TOPER,         ....  238 

THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN,  ....  280 

JIM  BRADDOCK'S  PLEDGE,          .  .  .  301 


THE  FACTORY  GIRL. 


THERE  was  something  wrong  about  the  affairs  of  old  Mr. 
Bacon.  His  farm,  once  the  best  tilled  and  most  productive 
in  the  neighbourhood,  began  to  show  evidences  of  neglect 
and  unfruitfulness  ;  and  that  he  was  going  behindhand  in 
the  world,  was  too  apparent  in  the  fact,  that,  within  two 
years  he  had  sold  twenty  acres  of  good  meadow,  and, 
moreover,  was  under  the  necessity  of  borrowing  three 
hundred  dollars  on  a  mortgage  of  his  landed  property. 
And  yet,  Mr.  Bacon  had  not  laid  aside  his  habits  of  indus 
try.  He  was  up,  as  of  old,  with  the  dawn,  and  turned  not 
his  feet  homeward  from  the  field  until  the  sun  had  taken 
his  parting  glance  from  the  distant  hill-tops. 

A  kind-hearted,  cheerful-minded  man  was  old  Mr.  Ba 
con,  well  liked  by  all  his  neighbours,  and  loved  by  his  own 
household.  His  two  oldest  children  died  ere  reaching  the 
age  of  manhood ;  three  remained.  Mary  Bacon,  the  eld 
est  of  those  who  survived,  now  in  her  nineteenth  year,  had 
been  from  earliest  childhood  her  father's  favourite ;  and,  as 
she  advanced  towards  womanhood,  she  had  grown  more 
and  more  into  his  heart.  In  his  eyes  she  was  very  beauti 
ful  ;  and  his  eyes,  though  partial,  did  not  deceive  him  very 
greatly,  for  Mary's  face  was  fair  to  look  upon. 

We  have  said  that  Mr.  Bacon  was  a  kind-hearted  cheer 
ful-minded  man.  And  so  he  was ;  kind-hearted  and  cheer 
ful,  even  though  clouds  were  beginning  to  darken  above 
him,  and  a  sigh  from  the  coming  tempest  was  in  the  air. 
Yet  not  so  uniformly  cheerful  as  of  old,  though  never 
moody  nor  perverse  in  his  tempers.  Of  the  change  that 
was  in  progress,  the  change  from  prosperity  to  adversity, 
he  did  not  seem  to  be  painfully  conscious. 

Yes,  there  was  something  wrong  about  the  affairs  of  old 
Mr.  Bacon.  A  habit  indulged  through  many  years,  had 
acquired  a  dangerous  influence  over  him,  and  was  gradu 
ally  destroying  his  rational  ability  to  act  well  in  the  ordinary 

(13) 


14  THE     FACTORY     GIRL. 

concerns  of  life.  As  a  young  man,  Mr.  Bacon  drank 
"  temperately,"  and  he  drank  "  temperately"  in  the  prime 
of  life  ;  and  now,  at  sixty,  he  continued  to  drink  "  temper 
ately,"  that  is,  in  his  own  estimation.  There  were  many, 
however,  who  had  reason  to  think  differently.  But  Mr. 
Bacon  was  no  bar-room  lounger  ;  in  fact,  he  rarely,  if  ever, 
went  to  a  public  house;  it  was  in  his  own  home  and 
among  his  household  treasures,  that  he  placed  to  his  lips 
the  cup  of  confusion. 

The  various  temperance  reforms  had  all  found  warm  ad 
vocates  among  his  friends  and  neighbours ;  but  Mr.  Bacon 
stood  aloof.  He  would  have  nothing  to  do  in  these  matters. 

"  Let  them  join  temperance  societies  who  feel  them 
selves  in  danger,"  was  his  good  natured  answer  to  all 
argument  or  persuasion  addressed  to  him  on  the  subject. 

He  did  not  oppose  nor  ridicule  the  movement.  He 
thought  it  a  good  thing ;  only,  he  had  in  it  no  personal 
interest. 

And  so  Mr.  Bacon  went  on  drinking  "  temperately  " 
until  habit,  from  claiming  a  moderate  indulgence,  began  to 
make,  so  it  seemed  to  his  friends,  rather  unreasonable  de 
mands.  Besides  this  habit  of  drinking,  Mr.  Bacon  had 
another  habit,  that  of  industry ;  and,  what  was  unusual,  the 
former  did  not  abate  the  latter,  though  it  must  be  owned 
that  it  sadly  interfered  with  its  efficiency.  He  was  up,  as 
we  have  said,  with  the  dawn,  and  all  the  day  he  was  busy 
at  work ;  but,  somehow  or  other,  his  land  did  not  produce 
as  liberally  as  in  former  times,  and  there  was  slowly  creep 
ing  over  every  thing  around  him  an  aspect  of  decay. 
Moreover,  he  did  not  manage,  as  well  as  formerly,  the  selling 
part  of  his  business.  In  fact,  his  shrewdness  of  mind  was 
gone.  Alcohol  had  confused  his  brain.  Gradually  he  was 
retrograding ;  and,  while  more  than  half  conscious  of  the 
ruin  that  was  in  advance'of  him,  he  was  not  fully  enough 
awake  to  feel  seriously  alarmed,  nor  to'  begin  anxiously  to 
seek  for  the  cause  of  impending  evil.  And  so  it  went  on 
until  Mr.  Bacon  suddenly  found  himself  in  the  midst  of 
real  trouble.  The  value  of  his  farm,  which,  after  parting 
with  the  twenty  acres  of  meadow  land,  contained  but 
twenty-five  acres,  had  been  yearly  diminishing  in  conse 
quence  of  bad  culture,  and  defective  management  of  his 
stock  had  reduced  that  until  it  was  of  little  consequence. 


THE     FACTORY     GIRL.  15 

The  holder  of  the  mortgage  was  a  man  named  Dyer,  who 
kept  a  tavern  in  the  village  that  lay  a  mile  distant  from  the 
little  white  farm-house  of  Mr.  Bacon.  When  Dyer  com 
menced  his  liquor-selling  trade,  for  that  was  his  principal 
business,  he  had  only  a  few  hundred  dollars  ;  now  he  was 
worth  thousands,  and  was  about  the  only  man  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  who  had  money  to  lend.  His  loans  were  always 
made  on  bond  and  mortgage,  and,  it  was  a  little  remarkable, 
that  he  was  never  known  to  let  a  sober,  industrious  farmer 
or  store-keeper  have  a  single  dollar.  But,  a  drinking  man, 
who  was  gradually  wasting  his  substance,  rarely  applied  to 
him  in  vain ;  for  he  was  the  cunning  spider  watching  for 
the  silly  fly.  More  than  one  worn-out  and  run-down  farm 
had  already  come  into  his  hands,  through  the  foreclosure  of 
mortgages,  at  a  time  of  business  depression,  when  his  help 
less  victims  could  find  no  sympathizing  friends  able  to  save 
them  from  ruin. 

One  day,  in  mid-winter,  as  Mr.  Bacon  was  cutting  wood 
at  his  rather  poorly  furnished  wood  pile,  the  tavern-keeper 
rode  up.  There  was  something  in  his  countenance  that 
sent  a  creeping  sense  of  fear  to  the  heart  of  the  farmer. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Dyer,"  said  he. 

"  Good  morning,"  returned  the  tavern-keeper,  formally. 
His  usual  smile  was  absent  from  his  face. 

"  Sharp  Jay,  this." 

"  Yes,  rather  keen." 

"  Won't  you  walk  in  and  take  something  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you.     H-h-e-em  !" 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Mr.  Bacon." 

The  farmer's  eye  sunk  beneath  the  cold  steady  look  of 
Dyer. 

"  Mr.  Bacon,  I  guess  I  shall  have  to  call  on  you  for  them 
three  hundred  dollars,"  said  the  tavern-keeper,  in  a  firm 
voice. 

"  Can't  pay  that  mortgage  now,  Mr.  Dyer,"  returned 
Bacon,  with  a  troubled  expression ;  "  no  use  to  think  of  it." 

"  Rather  a  cool  way  to  treat  a  man  after  borrowing  his 
money.  I  told  you  when  I  lent  it  that  I  might  want  it  at 
almost  any  time." 

Oh  !  no,  Mr.  Dyer.     It  was  understood",  distinctly,  that 


16  THE     FACTORY    GIRL. 

from  four  to  six  months'  notice  would  be  given,"  replied 

Mr.  Bacon,  positively. 

«  Preposterous'!"  ejaculated  the  tavern-keeper.  Never 
thought  of  such  a  thing.  Six  months  notice,  indeed  !• 

"  That  was  the  agreement,"  said  Mr.  Bacon,  firmly. 

"  Is  it  in  the  bond  ?" 

"  No,  it  was  verbal,  between  us." 

Dyer  shook  his  head,  as  he  answered,— 

"  No  sir .  I  never  make  agreements  of  that  kind  ;  the 
money  was  to  be  paid  on  demand,  and  I  have  ridden  over 
this  morning  to  make  the  demand." 

"It  is  mid  winter,  Mr.  Dyer,"  was  replied  in  a  husky  voice. 

«  Well  ?" 

"  You  know  that  a  small  farmer,  like  me,  cannot  be  in 
possession,  at  this  season,  of  the  large  sum  you  demand." 

"  That  is  your  affair,  Mr.  Bacon.  I  want  my  money  now, 
and  must  have  it." 

There  was  a  tone  of  menace  in  the  way  this  was  said 
that  Mr.  Bacon  fully  understood. 

"  I  haven't  thirty  dollars,  much  less  three  hundred,  in  my 
possession,"  said  he. 

«  Borrow  it,  then." 

"  Impossible !  money  has  not  been  so  scarce  for  years. 
Every  one  is  complaining." 

"  You'd  better  make  the  effort,  Mr.  Bacon,  I  shall  be 
sorry  to  put  you  to  any  trouble,  but  my  money  will  have  to 
be  forthcoming." 

"  You  will  not  enter  up  the  mortgage  ?"  said  the  farmer. 

"  It  will  certainly  come  to  that,  unless  you  can  pay  it." 

"  That  is  what  I  call  oppression !"  returned  Mr.  Bacon, 
in  momentary  indignation,  for  the  utterance  of  which  he 
was  as  quickly  repentant. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Dyer,  suddenly  turning  his  horse's 
head,  and  riding  off  at  a  brisk  trot. 

For  nearly  five  minutes,  old  Mr.  Bacon  stood  with  his 
axe  resting  on  the  ground,  lost  in  painful  thought.  Then 
he  went  slowly  into  the  hduse,  and  sitting  down  before  the 
fire,  let  his  head  sink  upon  his  breast,  and  there  mused  on 
the  trouble  that  was  closing  around  him.  But  there  came 
no  ray  of  light,  piercing  the  thick  darkness  that  had  fallen 
so  suddenly. 

Nothing  was  then  said  to  his  family  on  the  subject,  but 


THE     FACTORY     GIRL.  17 

it  was  apparent  to  all  that  something  was  wrong,  for  the 
lips  that  gave  utterance  to  so  many  pleasant  words,  and 
parted  so  often  in  cheerful  smiles,  were  still  silent.'1 

"  Are  you  not  well,  to-day  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Bacon,  as  the 
family  gathered  around  the  dinner-table,  and  she  remarked 
her  husband's  unusually  sober  face. 

"  Not  very  well,"  he  replied. 

"  What  ails  you,  father  ?"  said  Mary,  with  tender  con 
cern  in  her  voice,  and  her  eyes  were  turned  upon  him  with 
affectionate  earnestness. 

"  Nothing  of  much  consequence,  child,"  was  answered 
evasively.  "  I  shall  be  better  after  dinner." 

And  as  Mr.  Bacon  spoke  he  poured  out  a  larger  glass 
of  brandy  than  usual — he  always  had  brandy  on  the  table 
at  dinner  time — and  drank  it  off*.  This  soon  took  away  the 
keen  edge  of  suffering  from  his  feelings,  and  he  was  able 
to  affect  a  measure  of  cheerfulness.  But  he  did  not  de 
ceive  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Bacon  and  Mary. 

"  I  wonder  what  ails  father  !"  said  Mary,  as  soon  as  she 
was  alone  with  her  mother. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Mrs.  Bacon,  thoughtfully, 
"he  seems  troubled  about  something." 

"  I  saw  that  Mr.  Dyer,  who  keeps  tavern  over  in  Brook- 
ville,  talking  with  father  at  the  wood-pile  this  morning." 

"  You  did !"  Mrs.  Bacon  spoke  with  a  new  manifesta 
tion  of  interest. 

"  Yes ;  and  I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  him  out  of  the 
window,  that  he  appeared  to  be  angry  about  something." 

Mrs.  Bacon  did  not  reply  to  this  remark.  Soon  after,  on 
meeting  her  husband,  she  said  to  him, 

"  What  did  Mr.  Dyer  want  this  morning?" 

"  Something  that  he  will  not  get,"  replied  Mr.  Bacon. 

"  The  money  he  loaned  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  It's  impossible  to  pay  it  back  now,  in  the  dead  of 
winter,"  said  Mrs.  Bacon,  in  a  troubled  tone  of  voice,  "  he 
ought  to  know  that." 

"  And  he  does  know  it." 

"  What  did  you  tell  him  ?" 

"  That  to  lift  the  mortgage  now  was  out  of  the  question." 

"  Won't  he  be  troublesome  ?  You  remember  how  he 
acted  towards  poor  old  Mr.  Peabody." 

3 


18  THE     FACTORY     GIRL. 

"  I  know  he's  a  hard-hearted,  selfish  man.  I  don't  be 
lieve  that  there  is  a  spark  of  humanity  about  him.  But 
he'll  scarcely  go  to  extremities  with  me.  I  don't  fear  that." 

"  Did  he'threaten  ?" 

"  Yes.     But  I  hardly  think  that  he  was  in  earnest." 

How  far  this  last  remark  of  old  Mr.  Bacon  was  correct, 
the  following  brief  conversation  will  show.  It  took  place 
between  Dyer  and  a  miserable  pettyfogging  lawyer,  in 
Brookville,  named  Grant. 

"  I've  got  a  mortgage  on  old  Bacon's  farm  that  I  wish 
entered  up,"  said  the  tavern-keeper,  on  calling  at  the 
lawyer's  office. 

"  Can't  he  pay  it  off?"  inquired  Grant. 

"  Of  course  not.  He's  being  running  down  for  the  last 
six  or  seven  years,  and  is  now  on  his  last  legs." 

"  And  so  you  mean  to  trip  him  up  before  he  falls  of  him 
self."  The  lawyer  spoke  in  an  unfeeling  tone  and  with  a 
sinister  smile. 

"  If  you  please  to  say  so,"  returned  Dyer.  "  I've 
wanted  that  farm  of  his  for  some  time  past.  When  I  took 
the  mortgage  on  it  my  object  was  not  a  simple  investment 
at  legal  interest ;  you  know  that  I  can  do  better  with  money 
than  six  per  cent  a  year." 

"I  should  think  you  could,"  responded  the  lawyer, 
with  a  chuckle. 

"  When  I  loaned  Bacon  three  hundred  dollars,  of  course 
I  never  expected  to  get  the  sum  back  again.  I  understood, 
perfectly  well,  that  sooner  or  later  the  mortgage  would 
have  to  be  entered  up." 

"  And  the  farm  becomes  yours  for  half  its  real  value." 

"  Exactly." 

"  Are  you  not  striking  to  soon  ?"  suggested  the  lawyer. 

"  No." 

"  Some  friend  may  loan  him  the  amount." 

Dyer  shook  his  head. 

"  It's  a  tight  time  in  Brookville." 

"  I  know." 

"And  still  better  for  my  purpose,"  said  Dyer,  in  a  low, 
meaning,  voice ;  "drunkards  have  few  friends;  none,  in 
fact,  willing  to  risk  their  money  on  them.  Put  the  screws 
to  Bacon,  and  his  farm  will  drop  into  my  hands  like  a  ripe 
cherry.'' 


THE     FACTORY     GIRL.  19 

"  You  can  hardly  call  Bacon  a  drunkard.  You  never  see 
nim  staggering  about,  nor  lounging  in  bar-rooms." 

"  Do  you  remember  his  farm  seven  years  ago  ?" 

"  Perfectly  well." 

"  Look  at  it  now." 

"  There's  a  great  difference,  certainly." 

"  Isn't  there  !     What's  the  reason  of  this  ?" 

"  Intemperance,  I  suppose." 

"  Drunkenness  !"  said  the  tavern-keeper.  "  That  is  the 
right  word.  He  don't  spend  much  in  bar-rooms,  but  look 
over  his  store  bill  and  you'll  find  rum  a  large  item." 

"  Poor  Bacon  !  He's  a  good  sort  of  a  man,"  remarked 
the  lawyer.  "  I  can't  help  feeling  sorry  for  him.  He's  his 
own  worst  enemy." 

"  I  want  you  to  push  this  matter  through  in  the  quickest 
possible  time,"  said  Dyer,  in  a  sharp,  firm  voice. 

"  Very  well.    It  shall  be  done.    I  know  my  business." 

"  And  I  know  mine,"  returned  the  tavern-keeper. 

On  the  next  day,  Mr.  Bacon  was  formally  notified  that 
proceedings  had  been  instituted  for  the  satisfaction  of  the 
mortgage.  This  was  bringing  the  threatened  evil  before 
his  eyes  in  the  most  direct  aspect.  In  considerable  alarm 
and  perturbation,  he  called  over  to  see  Dyer. 

"  You  cannot  mean  to  press  this  matter  on  to  the  utmost 
extremity,"  said  he,  on  meeting  the  tavern-keeper,  the 
hard  aspect  of  whose  features  gave  him  little  room  for  hope. 

"  I  certainly  mean  to  get  my  three  hundred  dollars,"  was 
replied. 

"  Can  you  not  wait  until  after  next  harvest  ?" 

"  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  want  my  money  now," 
said  Dyer,  with  affected  anger.  "  If  you  can  pay  me, 
well ;  if  not,  I  will  get  my  own  by  aid  of  the  Sheriff." 

"  That  is  a  hard  saying,  Mr.  Dyer,"  returned  the  farmer, 
in  a  subdued  voice. 

"  Nevertheless,  it  is  a  true  one,  friend  Bacon,  true  as 
gospel." 

"  I  haven't  the  money,  nor  can  I  borrow  it,  Mr.  Dyer." 

"  Your  misfortune,  not  mine.  Though  I  must  say,  it  is  a 
little  strange." 

"  What  is  strange  ?" 

"  That  a  man  who  has  lived  in  this  community  as  long 
as  you  have,  can't  find  a  friend  willing  to  loan  him  three 


20  THE     FACTORYGIRL. 

hundred  dollars  to  save  his  farm  from  the  Sheriff.  There's 
something  wrong." 

Yes,  there  was  something  wrong,  and  poor  old  Mr.  Ba 
con  felt  it  now  more  deeply  than  ever.  Another  feeble  effort 
at  remonstrance  was  made,  when  Mr.  Dyer  coldly  referred 
him  to  Grant  the  lawyer,  who  had  now  entire  control  of  the 
business.  But  he  did  not  go  to  him.  He  felt  that  to  do  so 
would  be  utterly  useless. 

Regular  proceedings  were  entered  upon  for  the  settlement 
of  the  mortgage,  and  hurried  to  an  issue  as  speedily  as  pos 
sible.  It  was  all  in  vain  that  Mr.  Bacon  sought  to  borrow 
three  hundred  dollars,  or  to  find  some  person  willing  to  take 
the  mortgage  on  his  farm,  and  let  him  continue  to  pay  the 
interest.  It  was  a  season  when  few  had  money  to  spare, 
and  those  who  could  have  advanced  the  sum  required, 
hesitated  about  investing  it  where  there  was  little  hope  of 

fitting  the  amount  back  again  except  by  execution  and  sale, 
or,  Mr.  Bacon,  in  consequence  of  his  intemperance,  was 
steadily  running  behindhand  ;  and  all  his  neighbours  knew  it. 

The  effect  of  this  trouble  on  the  mind  of  Mr.  Bacon,  was 
to  cause  him  to  drink  harder  than  before.  His  cheerful 
temper  gave  place  to  a  silent  moodiness,  when  in  partial 
states  of  sobriety,  which  where  now  of  rare  occurrence, 
and  he  lost  all  interest  in  things  around  him.  A  greater 
part  of  his  time  was  spent  in  wandering  restlessly  about  his 
house  or  farm,  but  he  put  his  hand  to  scarcely  any  work. 

Deeply  distressed  were  Mrs.  Bacon  and  Mary.  Each  of 
them  had  called,  at  different  times  on  Mr.  Dyer,  in  the 
hope  of  moving  him  by  persuasion  to  turn  from  his  purpose. 

But,  only  in  one  way  would  he  agree  to  an  amicable 
settlement,  and  that  was,  by  taking  the  farm  for  the  mort 
gage  and  three  hundred  dollars  cash ;  by  which  means  he 
would  come  into  possession  of  property  worth  from  twelve 
to  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  This  offer  he  repeated  to  Mary, 
who  was  the  last  to  call  upon  him  in  the  hope  of  turning 
him  from  his  purpose. 

"No!  Mr.  Dyer,"  said  the  young  girl  firmly,  even 
while  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  «  My  father  will  not  let  the 
place  go  at  a  third  of  its  real  value."  , 

"  He  over-estimates  its  worth,"  replied  Dyer,  with  some 
impatience,  "  and  he'll  find  this  out  when  it  comes  under 
uw  hammer," 


THE     FACTORY     GIRL.  21 

"  You  will  not,  I  am  sure  you  will  not,  sacrifice  my  fa 
ther's  little  place, — the  home  of  his  children,"  said  Mary, 
in  an  appealing  voice. 

"  I  shall  certainly  let  things  take  their  course,"  replied 
the  tavern-keeper.  "  Tell  your  father,  from  me,  that  he 
has  nothing  to  hope  for  from  any  change  in  my  purpose, 
and  that  he  need  make  no  more  efforts  to  influence  me.  I 
will  buy  the  place,  as  I  said,  for  six  hundred  dollars,  its 
full  value,  or  I  will  sell  it  for  my  claim." 

And  saying  this,  the  man  left,  abruptly,  the  room  in  which 
his  interview  with  Mary  was  held,  and  she,  hopeless  of 
making  any  impression  on  his  feelings,  arose  and  retired 
from  the  house,  taking,  with  a  sad  heart,  her  way  home 
ward.  Never  before  had  Mary,  a  gentle-hearted,  quiet, 
retiring  girl,  been  forced  into  such  rough  contact  with  the 
world  at  any  point.  Of  this  act  of  intercession  for  her 
father,  Mr.  Bacon  knew  nothing.  Had  she  dropped  a 
a  word  of  her  purpose  in  his  hearing,  he  would  have  utter 
ed  a  positive  interdiction.  He  loved  Mary  as  the  apple  of 
his  eye,  and  she  loved  him  with  a  tender,  self-devoted  affec 
tion.  To  him,  she  was  a  choice  and  beautiful  flower,  and 
even  though  his  mind  had  become,  in  a  certain  degree,  de 
graded  and  debased  by  intemperance,  there  was  in  it  a 
quick  instinct  of  protection  when  any  thing  approached  his 
child. 

Slowly  and  thoughtfully,  with  her  eyes  bent  upon  the 
ground,  did  Mary  Bacon  pursue  her  way  homeward  ;  and 
she  was  not  aware  of  the  approach  of  footsteps  behind  her, 
until  a  man  stood  by  her  side  and  pronounced  her  name. 

"  Mr.  Green  !"  said  she,  in  momentary  surprise,  pausing 
as  she  looked  up. 

Mr.  Green  was  a  farmer  in  easy  circumstances,  whose 
elegant  and  highly  cultivated  place  was  only  a  short  dis 
tance  from  her  father's  residence.  He  was,  probably,  the 
"richest  man  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Brookville ;  though, 
exceedingly  close  in  all  money  matters.  Mr.  Bacon  would 
have  called  upon  him  for  aid  in  his  extremity,  but  for  two 
reasons.  One  was,  Mr.  Green's  known  indisposition  to 
lend  money,  and  the  other  was  the  fact  that  he  had  several 
times  talked  to  him  about  his  bad  drinking  habits  ;  at  which 
liberty  he  had  taken  offence,  and  retorted  rather  sharply  for 
one  of  his  mild  temper. 


22  THE     FACTORY     GIRL. 

The  colour  mounted  quickly  to  Mary's  face,  as  she  paused 
and  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  countenance  of  Mr.  Green.  The 
fact  was,  she  had  been  thinking  about  him,  and,  just  at  the 
moment  he  cam5  to  her  side,  she  had  fully  made  up  her 
mind  to  call  upon  him  before  going  home. 

"  Well  Mary,"  said  he,  kindly,  and  he  took  her  hand. 

Mary's  lips  quivered,  but  she  could  not  utter  a  word. 

Mr.  Green  moved  oft,  still  holding  her  hand,  and  she 
moved  by  his  side. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  hear,"  said  Mr.  Green,  "  that  your  father 
is  in  trouble.  I  learned  it  only  an  hour  ago." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  was  coming  to  see  you  about," 
replied  Mary,  with  a  boldness  of  speech  that  surprised  even 
herself. 

"  Indeed !  Then  you  were  coming  to  see  me,"  said 
Mr.  Green,  in  a  voice  that  was  rather  encouraging  than 
otherwise. 

"  Yes,  sir.     But  father  knows  nothing  of  my  purpose." 

"  Oh !    Well,  Mary,  what  is  it  you  wish  to  say  to  me  ?" 

The  young  girl's  bosom  was  heaving  violently.  Some 
moments  passed  ere  she  felt  calm  enough  to  proceed.  Then 
she  said — 

"  Mr.  Dyer  has  a  mortgage  on  father's  place  for  three 
hundred  dollars,  and  is  going  to  sell  it." 

"  Mr.  Dyer  is  a  hard  man,  and  your  father  should  not 
have  placed  himself  in  his  power,"  remarked  Mr.  Green. 

"  Unhappily,  he  is  in  his  power." 

"  So  it  seems.  Well,  what  do  you  wish  me  to  do  in  the 
case  ?" 

"  To  lend  me  three  hundred  dollars,"  said  Mary,  prompt 
ly.  Thus  encouraged  to  speak,  she  did  not  hesitate  a  mo 
ment. 

"  Lend  you  three  hundred  dollars !"  returned  Mr.  Green, 
rather  surprised  at  the  directness  of  her  request.  "  For 
what  use  ?" 

•'  To  pay  off  this  mortgage,  of  course,"  replied  Mary. 

"  But,  who  will  pay  me  back  my  money  ?"  inquired 
Mr.  Green. 

"  I  will,"  said  Mary,  confidently. 

"  You !  Pray  where  do  you  expect  to  get  so  much 
money  from  ?" 

"  I  expect  to  earn  it,"  was  firmly  answered. 


THE     FACTORY     GIRL.  23 

Mr.  Green  paused,  and  turning  towards  Mary,  looked 
earnestly  into  her  young  face  that  was  lit  up  with  a  beauti 
ful  enthusiasm. 

"  Earn  it,  did  you  say  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  will  earn  and  pay  it  back  to  you,  if  it  takes 
a  lifetime  to  do  it  in." 

"  How  will  you  earn  it,  Mary  ?" 

Mary  let  her  eyes  fall  to  the  ground,  and  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  or  two.  Then  looking  up,  she  said — 

"  I  will  go  to  Lowell." 

"  To  Lowell  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  work  in  a  factory  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Mr.  Green  moved  on  again,  but  in  silence,  and  Mary 
walked  with  an  anxious  heart  by  his  side.  For  the  distance 
of  several  hundred  yards  they  passed  along  and  not  a 
word  was  spoken. 

"  To  Lowell  ?"  at  length  dropped  from  the  lips  of  Mr. 
Green,  in  a  tone  half  interrogative,  half  in  surprise.  Mary 
did  not  respond,  and  the  silence  continued  until  they  came 
to  a  point  in  the  road  where  their  two  ways  diverged. 

"  Have  you  thought  well  of  this,  Mary  ?"  said  Mr. 
Green,  as  he  paused  here,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  a  gate 
that  opened  into  a  part  of  his  farm. 

"  Why  should  I  think  about  it,  Mr.  Green  ?"  replied 
Mary.  "  It  is  no  time  to  think,  but  to  act.  Hundreds  of 
girls  go  into  factories,  and  it  will  be  to  me  no  hardship, 
but  a  pleasure,  if  thereby  I  can  help  my  father  in  this 
great  extremity." 

"  Is  he  aware  of  your  purpose  ?" 

"Oh,  no  sir!  no!" 

"  He  would  never  listen  to  such  a  thing." 

"  Not  for  a  moment." 

"  Then  will  you  be  right  in  doing  what  he  must  disap 
prove  ?" 

"  It  is  done  for  his  sake.  Love  for  him  is  my  prompter, 
and  that  will  bear  me  up  even  against  his  displeasure." 

"  But  he  may  prevent  your  going,  Mary." 

"  Not  if  you  will  do  as  I  wish." 

"  Speak  on." 

"  Lend  me  three  hundred  dollars  on  my  promise  to  you 


24  THE     FACTORY    GIRL. 

that  I  will  immediately  go  to  Lowell,  enter  a  factory,  and 
remain  at  work  until  the  whole  sura  is  paid  back  again 
from  my  earnings." 

"Well!" 

"  I  will  then  take  the  money  and  pay  off  the  mortgage. 
This  will  release  father  from  his  debt  to  Mr.  Dyer,  and 
bring  me  in  debt  to  you." 

"I  see." 

"  Father  is  an  honest  and  an  honourable  man." 

"  He  is,  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Green.  His  voice  slightly 
trembled,  for  he  was  touched  by  the  words  of  the  gentle 
girl. 

"  He  will  not  be  able  to  pay  you  the  debt  in  my  stead." 

"  No." 

"  And,  therefore,  deeply  reluctant  as  he  may  be  to  let 
me  go,  he  cannot  say  nay." 

"  Walk  along  with  me  to  my  house,"  said  Mr.  Green,  as 
he  pushed  open  the  gate  at  which  he  stood,  "  I  must  think 
about  this  a  little  more." 

The  result  was  according  to  Mary's  wishes.  Mr.  Green 
was  a  true  friend  of  Mr.  Bacon's,  and  he  saw,  or  believed 
that  he  saw,  in  his  daughter's  proposition,  the  means  of  his 
reformation.  He,  therefore,  returned  into  the  village,  and 
going  to  the  office  of  Grant,  satisfied  the  mortgage  on  Mr. 
Bacon's  property,  and  brought  all  the  papers  relating  there 
to  away  and  placed  them  in  Mary's  hands. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  on  doing  this,  "  I  want  your  written 
promise  to  pay  me  the  three  hundred  dollars  in  the  way 
proposed.  I  will  draw  up  the  paper,  and  you  must  sign  it." 

The  paper  was  accordingly  drawn  up  and  signed.  It 
stipulated  that  Mary  was  to  start  for  Lowell  within  three 
weeks,  and  that  she  was  to  have  two  years  for  the  full  pay 
ment  of  the  debt. 

"  My  brave  girl !"  said  Mr.  Green,  as  he  parted  with 
Mary.  "  No  one  will  be  prouder  of  you  than  I,  if  you  ac 
complish  the  work  to  which  you  are  about  devoting  your 
self.  Happy  would  I  be,  had  I  a  daughter  with  your  true 
heart  and  noble  courage." 

Mary's  heart  was  too  full  to  thank  him.  But  her  sweet 
young  face  was  beaming  with  gratitude,  as  she  turned  away 
and  hurried  homeward. 

Mr.  Bacon  was  walking  uneasily,  backwards  and  for- 


THE     FACTORY     GIRL.  25 

wards  in  the  old  porch,  when  Mary  entered  the  little  gar 
den  gate.  She  advanced  towards  him  with  a  bright  face, 
holding  out  as  she  did  so,  a  small  package  of  papers." 

"  Good  news,  father!"  she  exclaimed.    "Good  news!" 

"  How  ?  What,  child  ?"  eagerly  asked  the  old  mans  ms 
mind  becoming  suddenly  bewildered. 

"  The  mortgage  is  paid,  and  here  is  the  release!"  said 
Mary,  still  holding  out  the  package  of  papers. 

"Paid!  Paid,  Mary!  Who  paid  it?"  returned  Mr. 
Bacon,  with  the  air  of  a  man  awaking  from  a  dream. 

"I  have  paid  it,  father  dear!"  answered  Mary,  in  a 
trembling  voice  ;  and  she  kissed  the  old  man's  cheek,  and 
then  laid  her  face  down  upon  his  breast. 

"  You,  Mary  ?"    Where  did  you  get  money  ?" 

"  I  borrowed  it,"  murmured  the  happy  girl. 

"  Mary  !  Mary !  what  does  this  mean  ?"  said  the  old 
man,  pushing  back  her  face  and  gazing  into  it  earnestly. 
"  Borrowed  the  money !  Why,  who  would  lend  you  three 
hundred  dollars  ?  Say  child !" 

"  I  borrowed  it  of  Mr.  Green,"  replied  Mary,  and  as 
she  said  this,  she  glided  past  her  father  and  entering  into 
the  house,  hurried  away  to  her  mother.  But  ere  she  had 
time  to  inform  her  of  what  she  had  done,  the  father  joined 
them,  eager  for  some  further  explanations.  When,  at  last, 
he  comprehended  the  whole  matter,  he  was,  for  a  time  like 
a  man  stricken  down  by  a  heavy  blow. 

"  Never,"  said  he,  in  the  most  solemn  manner,  "  will  I 
consent  to  this.  Mr.  Green  must  take  back  his  money. 
Let  the  farm  go !  It  shall  not  be  saved  at  this  price." 

But  he  soon  comprehended  that  it  was  too  late  to  recall 
the  act  of  his  daughter.  The  money  had  already  passed 
into  the  hands  of  Dyer,  and  the  mortgage  been  cancelled. 
Still,  he  was  fixed  in  his  purpose  that  Mary  should  not 
leave  home  to  spend  two  long  years  of  incessant  toil  in  a 
factory,  and  immediately  called  on  Mr.  Green  in  order  to 
make  with  him  some  different  arrangement  for  the  payment 
of  the  loan.  But,  to  his  surprise  and  grief,  he  found  that 
Mr.  Green  was  unyielding  in  his  determination  to  keep 
Mary  to  her  contract. 

"Surely!  surely!  Mr.  Green,"  urged  the  distressed  fa 
ther,  "  you  will  not  hold  my  dear  child  to  this  pledge, 
made  under  circumstances  of  so  trying  a  nature  ?  You  will 

4 


26  THE     FACTORY     GIRL. 

not  punish— I  say  punish — a  gentle  girl  like  her  for  loving 
her  father  too  well." 

"  If  there  is  any  hardship  in  the  case,"  replied  Mr. 
Green,  calmly,  "you  are  at  fault,  and  not  me,  Mr.  Bacon." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?"  inquired  the  old  man. 

"  For  the  necessity  which  drove  your  child  to  this  act  of 
self-sacrifice,  you  are  responsible." 

"  Oh  sir !  is  this  a  time  to  wound  me  with  words  like 
these  ?  Why  do  you  turn  a  seeming  act  of  kindness  into 
the  sharpest  cruelty  ?" 

"  I  speak  to  you  but  the  words  of  truth  and  soberness, 
Mr.  Bacon.  These,  no  man  should  shrink  from  hearing. 
Seven  years  ago,  your  farm  was  the  most  productive  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  you  in  easy  circumstances.  What 
has  produced  the  sad  change  now  visible  to  all  eyes? 
What  has  taken  from  you  the  ability  to  manage  your  affairs 
as  prosperously  as  before  ?  What  has  made  it  necessary  for 
your  child  to  leave  her  father's  sheltering  roof  and  bury  her 
self  for  two  long  years  in  a  factory,  in  order  to  save  you 
from  total  ruin?  Go  home,  Mr.  Bacon,  and  answer  these 
questions  to  your  own  heart,  and  may  the  pain  you  now 
suffer  lead  you  to  act  more  wisely  in  the  future." 

"  My  daughter  shall  not  go !"  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
passionately. 

"  I  hold  her  written  pledge  to  repair  to  Lowell  at  the  ex 
piration  of  three  weeks,  and  to  repay  the  loan  I  made  her 
in  two  years.  Will  you  compel  her  to  violate  her  con 
tract?" 

"  I  will  execute  another  mortgage  on  my  farm  and  pay 
you  back  the  loan." 

"  Act  like  a  wise  man,"  said  Mr.  Green.  {<  Let  your 
daughter  carry  out  her  noble  purpose,  and  thus  relieve  you 
from  embarrassment." 

_  "  No,  no,  Mr.  Green !  I  cannot  think  of  this.  Oh,  sir ! 
pity  me !  Do  not  force  my  child  away !  Do  not  lay  so 
heavy  a  burden  on  one  so  young.  Think  of  her  as  your 
own  daughter,  and  do  to  me  as  you  would  yourself  wish  to 
be  done  by." 

But  Mr.  Green  was  deaf  to  all  these  appeals.  He  was 
a  man  of  great  firmness  of  purpose,  and  not  easily  turned 
to  the  right  nor  to  the  left. 

During  the  next  three  weeks,  Mr.  Bacon  tried  every  ex- 


THE     FACTORY     GIRL.  29 

pedient  in  his  power,  short  of  a  total  sacrifice  of  his  little 
property,  to  raise  the  money,  but  in  vain.  Except  for  a 
circumstance  new  in  his  life,  he  would,  in  his  desperation, 
have  accepted  Dyer's  offer  of  six  hundred  dollars  for  his 
farm,  and  thus  prevented  Mary's  departure  for  Lowell — 
that  circumstance  was  his  perfect  sobriety.  Not  since  the 
day  when  Mr.  Green  charged  upon  him  the  responsibility 
of  his  child's  banishment  from  her  father's  house,  had  he 
tasted  a  drop  of  strong  drink.  .  His  mind  was  therefore 
clear,  and  he  was  restrained  by  reason  from  acts  of  rash 
ness,  by  which  his  condition  would  be  rendered  far  worse 
than  it  was  already. 

Bitter  indeed  were  the  sufferings  of  Mr.  Bacon,  during 
the  quick  passage  of  the  three  weeks — at  the  expiration  of 
which  time  Mary  was  to  leave  home,  in  compliance  with 
her  contract — and  the  more  bitter,  because  his  mind  was 
unobscured  by  drink.  At  last,  the  moment  of  separation 
came.  It  was  a  clear  cold  morning  towards  the  latter  end 
of  March,  when  Mary  left,  for  the  last  time,  her  little  cham 
ber,  and  came  down  stairs  dressed  for  her  journey.  Ever, 
in  the  presence  of  her  father  and  mother,  during  the  brief 
season  of  preparation,  had  she  maintained  a  cheerful  and 
confident  exterior ;  but,  in  her  heart,  there  was  a  painful 
shrinking  back  from  the  trial  upon  which  she  was  about 
entering.  On  going  by  the  door  of  Mary's  chamber,  a  few 
minutes  before  she  came  down,  Mrs.  Bacon  saw  her 
daughter  kneeling  at  her  bedside,  with  her  face  deeply 
buried  among  the  clothes.  Not  till  that  moment  did  she  fully 
comprehend  the  trial  through  which  her  child  was  passing. 

The  stage  was  at  the  door,  and  Mary's  trunk  strapped 
up  in  the-  boot  before  she  came  down.  In  the  porch  stood 
her  father  and  mother,  and  her  younger  brother  and  sister, 
waiting  her  appearance. 

"  Good  bye,  father,"  said  the  excellent  girl,  in  a  cheerful 
voice,  as  she  reached  out  her  hand. 

Mr.  Bacon  caught  it  eagerly,  and  essayed  to  speak  some 
tender  and  encouraging  words.  But  though  his  lips  moved, 
there  was  no  sound  upon  the  air. 

"  God  bless  you !"  was  at  length  uttered  in  a  sobbing 
voice.  A  fervent  kiss  was  then  pressed  upon  her  lips,  and 
the  old  man  turned  away  and  staggered  rather  than  walked 
back  into  the  house. 


30  THE    FACTORY     GIRL. 

More  calmly  the  mother  parted  with  her  child.  It  was 
a  great  trial  for  Mrs.  Bacon,  but  she  now  fully  compre 
hended  the  great  use  to  flow  from  Mary's  self-devotion, 
and,  therefore,  with  her  last  kiss,  breathed  a  word  of  en 
couragement. 

"  It  is  for  your  father.    Let  that  sustain  you  to  the  end." 

A  few  moments  more,  and  the  stage  rolled  away,  bear 
ing  with  it  the  very  sunlight  from  the  dwelling  of  Mr.  Ba 
con.  Poor  old  man !  Restlessly  did  he  wander  about  for 
days  after  Mary's  departure,  unable  to  apply  himself,  except 
for  a  little  while  at  a  time,  to  any  work  ;  but  his  inquietude 
did  not  drive  him  back  to  the  cup  he  had  abandoned.  No, 
he  saw  in  it  too  clearly  the  cause  of  his  present  deep 
distress,  to  look  upon  and  feel  its  allurement.  What  had 
banished  from  her  pleasant  home  that  beloved  child,  and 
sent  her  forth  among  strangers  to  toil  from  early  morning 
until  the  going  down  of  the  sun  ?  Could  he  love  the  cause 
of  this  great  evil  ?  No !  There  was  yet  enough  virtue  in 
his  heart  to  save  him.  Love  for  his  child  was  stronger 
than  his  depraved  love  of  strong  drink.  A  few  more  in 
effectual  efforts  were  made  to  turn  Mr.  Green  from  his  reso 
lution  to  hold  Mary  to  her  contract,  and  then  the  humbled 
father  resigned  himself  to  the  necessity  he  could  not  over 
come,  and  with  a  clearer  mind  and  a  newly  awakened 
purpose,  applied  himself  to  the  culture  of  his  farm,  which, 
in  a  few  months,  had  a  more  thrifty  appearance  than  it  had 
presented  for  years. 

In  the  mean  time,  Mary  had  entered  one  of  the  mills  at 
Lowell,  and  was  doing  her  work  there  with  a  brave  and 
cheerful  spirit.  Some  painful  trials,  to  one  like  her,  attend 
ed  her  arrival  in  the  city  and  entrance  upon  the  duties 
assumed.  But  daily  the  trials  grew  less,  and  she  toiled  on 
in  the  fulfilment  of  her  contract  with  Mr.  Green,  happy 
under  the  ever  present  consciousness  that  she  had  saved 
her  father's  property,  and  kept  their  homestead  as  the 
gathering  place  of  the  family.  At  the  end  of  three  months, 
she  came  back  and  spent  a  week.  How  her  young  heart 
bounded  with  joy  at  the  great  change  apparent  in  every 
thing  about  the  house  and  farm,  but,  most  of  all,  at  the 
change  in  her  father.  He  was  not  so  light  of  word  and 
smilingly  cheerful  as  in  former  times,  but  he  was  sober, 
perfectly  sober ;  and  she  felt  that  the  kiss  with  which  he 


THE     FACTORY     GIRL.  31 

•welcomed  her  brief  return,  was  purer  than  it  had  ever 
been. 

On  the  very  day  Mary  came  back,  she  called  over  to  see 
Mr.  Green,  and  paid  him  thirty-seven  dollars  on  account 
of  the  loan,  for  which  he  gave  her  a  receipt.  Then  he  had 
many  questions  to  ask  about  her  situation  at  Lowell,  and 
how  she  bore  her  separation  from  home,  to  all  of  which 
she  gave  cheerful  answers,  and,  in  the  end,  repeated  her 
thanks  for  the  opportunity  he  had  given  her  to  be  of  such 
great  service  to  her  father. 

Mr.  Green  had  a  son  who,  during  his  term  at  college, 
exhibited  talents  of  so  decided  a  character  that  his  father, 
after  some  deliberation,  concluded  to  place  him  under  the 
care  of  an  eminent  lawyer  in  Boston.  In  this  position  he 
had  now  been  for  two  years,  and  was  about  applying  for 
admission  to  the  bar.  As  children,  Henry  Green  and  Mary 
Bacon  had  been  to  the  same  school  together,  and,  as  chil 
dren,  they  were  much  attached  to  each  other.  Their  inter 
course,  as  each  grew  older,  was  suspended  by  the  absence 
of  Henry  at  college,  and  by  other  circumstances  that  re 
moved  the  two  families  from  intimate  contact,  and  they  had 
ceased  to  think  of  each  other  except  when  some  remem 
brance  of  the  past  brought  up  their  images. 

After  paying  Mr.  Green  the  amount  of  money  which  she 
had  saved  from  her  earnings  during  the  first  three  months 
of  her  factory  life,  Mary  left  his  house,  and  was  walking 
along  the  carriage  way  leading  to  the  public  road,  when 
she  saw  a  young  man  enter  the  gate  and  approach  her. 

Although  it  was  three  years  since  she  had  met  Henry 
Green,  she  knew  him  at  a  glance,  but  he  did  not  recognize 
her,  although  struck  with  something  familiar  in  her  face  as 
he  bowed  to  her  in  passing. 

"  Who  can  that  be  ?"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he  walked 
thoughtfully  along.  "  I  have  seen  her  before.  Can  that 
be  Mary  Bacon  ?  If  so,  how  much  she  has  improved !" 

On  meeting  his  father,  the  young  man  asked  if  he  was 
right  in  his  conjecture  about  the  young  person  he  had  just 
passed,  and  was  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"  She  was  only  a  slender  girl  when  I  saw  her  last.  Now, 
she  is  a  handsome  young  woman,"  said  Henry. 

"  Yes,  Mary  has  grown  up  rapidly,"  replied  Mr.  Green, 
evincing  no  particular  interest  in  the  subject  of  his  remark. 


32  THE     FACTORY     GIRL. 

"  How  is  her  father  doing  now  ?"  asked  Henry. 

"  Better  than  he  did  a  short  time  ago,"  was  replied 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that.  Does  he  drink  as  much  as 
ever  ?" 

"  No.     He  has  given  up  that  bad  habit." 

"  Indeed !     Then  he  must  be  doing  better." 

"He  ran  himself  down  very  low,"  said  Mr.  Green, 
"  and  was  about  losing  every  thing,  when  Mary,  like  a 
brave,  right-minded  girl,  stepped  forward  and  saved  him." 

"  Mary !     How  did  she  do  that,  father  ?" 

"  Dyer  had  a  mortgage  of  three  hundred  dollars  on  his 
farm,  and  was  going  to  sell  him  out  in  mid-winter,  when 
nobody  who  cared  to  befriend  him -had  money  to  spare. 
On  the  very  day  I  heard  about  his  trouble,  Mary  called  on 
me  and  asked  the  loan  of  a  sum  sufficient  to  lift  the  mort 
gage. 

"  But  how  could  she  pay  you  back  that  sum  ?"  asked 
the  young  man  in  surprise. 

"I  loaned  her  the  amount  she  asked,"  replied  Mr. 
Green,  "  and  she  has  just  paid  me  the  first  promised  instal 
ment  of  thirty-seven  dollars." 

"  How  did  she  get  the  money  ?" 

"  She  earned  it  with  her  own  hands." 

"  Where  ?" 

"  In  Lowell." 

"  You  surprise  me,"  said  Henry.  "  And  so,  to  save  her 
father  from  ruin,  she  has  devoted  her  young  life  to  toil  in  a 
factory  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  the  effect  of  this  self-devotion  has  been  all 
that  I  hoped  it  would  be.  It  has  reformed  her  father.  It 
has  saved  him  in  a  double  sense." 

"  Noble  girl !"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  with  enthusi 
asm. 

"Yes,  you  may  well  say  that,  Henry,"  replied  Mr. 
Green.  "  In  the  heart  of  that  humble  factory  girl  is  a  truly 
noble  and  womanly  principle,  that  elevates  her,  in  my  esti 
mation,  far  above  any  thing  that  rank,  wealth,  or  social  posi 
tion  alone  can  possibly  give." 

"  But  father,"  said  Henry,  "  is  it  right  to  subject  her  to 
so  severe  a  trial  ?  It  will  take  a  long,  long  time,  for  her 
to  earn  three  hundred  dollars.  Does  not  virtue  like 
hers—" 


THE     FACTORY     GIRL.  33 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say,"  interrupted  Mr.  Green. 
Lrue  I  could  cancel  the  obligation  and  derive  great  plea 
sure  from  doing  so,  but  it  is  the  conclusion  of  my  better 
judgment,  all  things  considered,  that  she  be  permitted  to 
fill  up  the  entire  measure  of  her  contract.  The  trial  will 
fully  prove  her,  and  bring  to  view  the  genuine  gold  of  her 
character.  Moreover,  it  is  best  for  her  father  that  she 
should  seem  to  be  a  sufferer  through  his  intemperance.  I 
say  seem,  for,  really,  Mary  experiences  more  pleasure  than 
pain  from  what  she  is  doing.  The  trial  is  not  so  great  as 
it  appears.  Her  reward  is  with  her  daily,  and  it  is  a  rich 
reward." 

Henry  asked  no  further  question,  but  he  felt  more  than  a 
passing  interest  in  what  he  had  heard.  In  the  course  of  a 
week,  Mary  returned  to  Lowell  and  he  went  back  to  Bos 
ton. 

Three  months  afterwards,  Mary  again  came  home  to 
visit  her  parents,  and  again  called  upon  Mr.  Green  to  pay 
over  to  him  what  she  had  been  able  to  save  from  her  earn 
ings.  It  so  happened  that  Henry  Green  was  on  a  visit 
from  Boston,  and  that  he  met  her,  as  before,  as  she  was  re 
tiring  from  the  house  of  his  father.  This  time  he  spoke  to 
her  and  renewed  their  old  acquaintance,  even  going  so  far 
as  to  walk  a  portion  of  the  way  home  with  her.  At  the 
end  of  another  three  months,  they  met  again.  Brief  though 
this  meeting  was,  it  left  upon  the  mind  of  each  the  other's 
image  more  strongly  impressed  than  it  had  ever  been.  In 
the  circle  where  Henry  Green  moved  in  Boston,  he  met 
many  educated,  refined,  and  elegant  young  women,  some 
of  whom  had  attracted  him  strongly  ;  but,  in  the  humble 
Mary  Bacon,  whose  station  in  life  was  that  of  a  toiling  fac 
tory  girl,  he  saw  a  moral  beauty  whose  light  threw  all  the"  - 
allurements  presented  by  these  completely  into  shadow. 

Six  months  went  by.  Henry  Green  had  been  admitted 
to  the  bar,  and  was  now  a  practising  attorney  in  Boston. 
It  was  in  the  pleasant  month  of  June  and  he  had  come 
home  to  spend  a  few  weeks  with  his  family.  One  morn 
ing,  a  day  or  two  after  his  return,  as  he  sat  conversing  with 
his  father,  the  form  of  some  one  darkened  the  door. 

"  Ah  Mary !"  said  the  elder  Mr.  Gieen  rising  and  tak 
ing  the  hand  of  Mary  Bacon,  which  he  shook  warmly. 
"  My  son,  Henry,"  he  added,  presenting  the  blushing  girl 


34  THE     FACTORY    GIRL. 

to  his  son,  who,  in  turn,  took  her  hand  and  expressed  the 
pleasure  he  felt  at  meeting  her.  Knowing  the  business 
upon  which  Mary  had  called,  Henry,  not  wishing  to  be 
present  at  its  transaction,  soon  retired.  As  he  did  so, 
Mary  drew  out  her  purse  and  took  therefrom  a  small  roll 
of  bank  bills,  saying,  as  she  handed  it  to  Mr.  Green, 

"  I  have  come  to  make  you  another  payment." 

With  a  grave,  business-like  air,  Mr.  Green  took  the  money 
and,  after  counting  it  over,  went  to  his  secretary  and  wrote 
out  a  receipt. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  he,  thoughtfully,  as  he  came  back 
with  the  receipt  in  his  hand.  "  How  much  does  this 
make?  One,  two,  three,  four,  five  quarterly  payments. 
One  hundred  and  eighty-seven  dollars  and  a  half.  You'll 
soon  be  through,  Mary.  There  is  nothing  like  patience, 
perseverance,  and  industry.  How  is  your  father  this  morn 
ing?" 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

"  I  think  his  health  has  improved  of  late." 

"  Very  much." 

"And  so  has  every  thing  around  him.  I  was  looking  at 
his  farm  a  few  days  ago,  and  never  saw  crops  in  a  finer 
condition.  And  how  is  your  health,  Mary." 

"  Pretty  good,"  was  replied,  though  not  with  much 
heartiness  of  manner. 

Mr.  Green  now  observed  her  more  closely,  and  saw  that 
her  cheeks  were  thinner  and  paler  than  at  her  last  visit. 
He  did  not  remark  on  it,  however,  and,  after  a  few  words 
more  of  conversation,  Mary  arose  and  withdrew. 

It  was,  perhaps,  an  hour  afterwards,  that  Henry  said  to 

!_•        «   »1_  *  *  '  * 

his  father, 

"  Mary  Bacon  doesn't  look  as  well  as  when  I  last  saw 
her." 

"  So  it  struck  me,"  returned  Mr.  Green. 

"  I'm  afraid  she  has  taken  upon  her  more  than  she  has 
the  strength  to  accomplish.  She  is  certainly  paler  and  thin 
ner  than  she  was,  and  is  far  from  looking  as  cheerful  and 
happy  as  when  I  saw  her  six  months  ago." 

Mr.  Green  did  not  reply  to  this,  but  his  countenance 
assumed  a  thoughtful  expression. 

"  Mary  is  a  good  daughter,"  he  at  length  said,  as  if 
speaking  to  himself. 


THE     FACTORY     GIRL.  35 

"  There  is  not  one  in  a  thousand  like  her,"  replied 
Henry,  with  a  warmth  of  manner  that  caused  Mr.  Green  to 
lift  his  eyes  to  his  son's  face. 

"  I  fully  agree  with  you  in  that,"  he  answered. 

"  Then,  father,"  said  Henry,  "why  hold  her  any  longer 
to  her  contract,  thus  far  so  honorably  fulfilled.  The  trial 
has  proved  her.  You  see  the  pure  gold  of  her  character." 

"  I  have  long  seen  it,"  returned  Mr.  Green. 

"  Her  father  is  thoroughly  reformed." 

"  So  I  have  reason  to  believe." 

"  Then  act  from  your  own  heart's  generous  impulses, 
father,  and  forgive  the  balance  of  the  debt." 

"  Are  you  certain  that  she  will  accept  what  you  ask  me 
to  give  ?  Will  her  own  sense  of  justice  permit  her  to  stop 
until  the  whole  claim  is  satisfied  ?"  asked  Mr.  Green. 

"I  cannot  answer  for  that  father,"  returned  Henry. 
u  But,  let  me  beg  of  you  to  at  least  make  the  generous 
offer  of  a  release." 

Mr.  Green  went  to  his  secretary,  and,  taking  a  small 
piece  of  paper  from  a  drawer,  held  it  up,  and  said — 

"  This,  Henry,  is  her  acknowledgment  of  the  debt  to 
me.  If  I  write  upon  it  '  satisfied,'  will  you  take  it  to  her 
and  say,  that  I  hold  the  obligation  no  farther." 

"  Gladly !"  was  the  instant  reply  of  Henry.  "  You 
could  not  ask  me  to  do  a  thing  from  which  I  would  derive 
greater  pleasure." 

Mr.  Green  took  up  his  pen  and  wrote  across  the  face  of 
the  paper,  in  large  letters,  "  satisfied,"  and  then,  handing 
it  to  his  son,  said — 

"  Take  it  to  her,  Henry,  and  say  to  her,  that  if  I  had 
given  way  to  my  feelings,  I  would  have  done  this  a  year 
ago.  And  now,  let  me  speak  a  word  for  your  ear.  Never 
again,  in  this  life,  may  a  young  woman  cross  your  path, 
whose  character  is  so  deeply  grounded  in  virtue,  who  is  so 
pure,  so  unselfish,  so  devoted  in  her  love,  so  strong  in  her 
good  purposes.  Her  position  is  humble,  but,  in  a  life-com 
panion,  wre  want  personal  excellences,  not  extraneous  so 
cial  adjuncts.  You  have  my  full  consent  to  win,  if  you 
can,  this  sweet  flower,  blooming  by  the  way-side.  A  proud 
day  will  it  be  for  me,  when  I  can  call  her  my  daughter.  I 
have  long  loved  her  as  such." 

More  welcome  words  than  these  Mr.  Green  could  not 
5 


36  THE     FACTORY     GIRL. 

have  spoken  to  his  son.  They  were  like  a  response  to  his 
own  feelings.  He  did  not,  however,  make  any  answer, 
but  took  the  contract  in  silence  and  quickly  left  the  room. 

The  reader  can  easily  anticipate  what  followed.  Mary 
did  not  go  back  to  Lowell.  A  year  afterwards  she  was 
introduced  to  a  select  circle  of  friends  in  Boston  as  the  wife 
of  Henry  Green,  and  she  is  now  the  warmly  esteemed 
friend  and  companion  of  some  of  the  most  intelligent,  re 
fined,  right-thinking,  and  right-feeling  people  in  that  city. 
Her  husband  has  seen  no  reason  to  repent  of  his  choice. 

As  for  old  Mr.  Bacon,  his  farm  has  continued  to  improve 
in  appearance  and  value  ever  since  his  daughter  paid  off 
the  mortgage ;  and  as  he,  once  for  all,  banished  liquor 
from  his  house,  he  is  in  no  danger  of  having  his  little  pro 
perty  burdened  with  a  new  encumbrance.  His  cheerfulness 
has  returned,  and  he  bears  as  of  old,  the  reputation  of 
being  the  best  tempered,  best  hearted  man  in  the  neigh- 
oorhood 


TWO   PICTURES. 


Two  beautiful  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  the  oldest  but 
six  years  of  age,  came  in  from  school  one  evening,  later 
than  usual  by  half  an  hour.  Both  their  eyes  were  red  with 
weeping,  and  their  cheeks  wet  with  tears.  Their  father, 
Mr.  Warren,  who  had  come  home  from  his  business  earlier 
than  usual,  had  been  waiting  some  time  for  their  return, 
and  wondering  why  they  stayed  so  late.  They  were  his 
only  children,  and  he  loved  them  most  tenderly.  They 
had,  a  few  weeks  before,  been  entered  at  a  school  kept  by 
a  lady  in  the  neighborhood — not  so  much  for  what  they 
would  learn,  as  to  give  occupation  to  their  active  minds. 

"  Why,  Anna!  Willy  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Warren,  as  the 
children  came  in,  "  what's  the  matter  ?  Why  have  yo« 
stayed  so  late  ?" 

Anna  lifted  her  tearful  eyes  to  her  father's  face,  and  her 
lip  curled  and  quivered.  But  she  could  not  answer  his 
question. 

Mr.  Warren  took  the  grieving  child  in  his  arms,  and  as 
he  drew  her  to  his  bosom,  said  to  Willy,  who  was  the 
oldest — 

"  What  has  made  you  so  late,  dear?" 

"  Miss  Roberts  kept  us  in,"  sobbed  Willy. 

"Kept  you  in!"  returned  Mr.  Warren,  in  surprise. 
"  How  came  that  ?" 

"  Because  we  laughed,"  answered  the  child,  still  sob 
bing  and  weeping. 

"  What  made  you  laugh  ?" 

"  One  of  the  boys  made  funny  faces." 

"  And  did  you  laugh  too,  dear  ?"  asked  the  father  of 
Anna. 

"  Yes,  papa.  But  I  couldn't  help  it.  And  Miss  Roberts 
scolded  so,  and  said  she  was  going  to  whip  us." 

"  And  was  that  all  you  did  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  papa,"  said  Willy. 


38  TWO     PICTURES. 

"  I'll  see  Miss  Roberts  about  it,"  fell  angrily  from  the 
lips  of  Mr.  Warren.  "  It's  the  last  time  you  appear  in  her 
school.  A  cruel-minded  woman  !" 

And  then  the  father  soothed  his  grieving  little  ones  with 
affectionate  words  and  caresses. 

"  Dear  little  angels  !"  said  Mr.  Warren  to  his  wife,  shortly 
afterwards,  "  that  any  one  could  have  the  heart  to  punish 
them  for  a  sudden  outburst  of  joyous  feelings !  And  Anna 
in  particular,  a  mere  babe  as  she  is,  I  can't  get  over  it. 
To  think  of  her  being  kept  in  for  a  long  half  hour,  under 
punishment,  after  all  the  other  children  had  gone  home.  It 
was  cruel.  Miss  Roberts  shall  hear  from  me  on  the  sub 
ject." 

"  I  don't  know,  dear,  that  I  would  say  any  thing  about 
it,"  remarked  the  mother,  who  was  less  excited  about  the 
matter,  "I  don't  think  she  meant  to  be  severe.  She, 
doubtless,  forgot  that  they  were  so  very  young." 

"  She'd  no  business  to  forget  it.  I've  no  idea  of  my 
children  being  used  after  this  fashion.  The  boy  that  made 
them  laugh  should  have  been  kept  in,  if  any  punishment 
had  to  be  inflicted.  But  it's  the  way  with  cruel-minded 
people.  The  weakest  are  always  chosen  as  objects  of 
their  dislike." 

"  I  am  sure  you  take  this  little  matter  too  much  to  heart," 
urged  the  mother.  "  Miss  Roberts  must  have  order  in  her 
school,  and  even  the  youngest  must  conform  to  this  order. 
I  do  not  think  the  punishment  so  severe.  She  had  to  do 
something  to  make  them  remember  their  fault,  and  restrain 
their  feelings  in  future  ;  and  she  could  hardly  have  done 
less.  It  is  not  too  young  for  them  to  learn  obedience  in 
any  position  where  they  are  introduced." 

But  the  over  fond  and  tender  father  could  see  no  reason 
for  the  punishment  his  little  ones  had  received  ;  and  would 
not  consent  to  let  them  go  again  to  the  school  of  Miss  Ro 
berts.  To  him  they  were  earth's  most  precious  things. 
They  were  tender  flowers ;  and  he  was  troubled  if  ever  the 
winds  blew  roughly  upon  them. 

Seven  years  have  passed.     Let  us  visit  the  home  of  Mr. 
Warren  and  look  at  him  among  his  children.    No  ;  we  will 
not  enter  this  pleasant  house — he  moved  away  long  ago. ' 
Can  this  be  the  home  of  Mr.  Warren !    Yes.     Small,  poor, 
and  comfortless  as  it  is !   Ah  !  there  have  been  sad  changes. 


TWO     PICTURES.  39 

Let  us  enter.  Can  that  be  Warren  ?  That  wretched  look 
ing  creature — with  swollen,  disfigured  face  and  soiled 
garments — who  sits,  half  stupid,  near  the  window?  A 
little  flaxen-haired  child  is  playing  on  the  floor.  It  is  not 
Anna.  No  ;  seven  years  have  changed  her  from  the  fairy- 
like  little  creature  she  was  when  her  father  became  outraged 
at  her  punishment  in  Miss  Roberts'  school !  Poor  Anna ! 
That  was  light  as  the  thistle  down  to  what  she  has  since 
received  from  the  hands  of  her  father. 

The  child  on  the  floor  is  beautiful,  even  in  her  tattered 
clothes.  She  has  been  playing  for  some  time.  Now  her 
father  calls  to  her  in  a  rough,  grumbling  voice. 

"Kate!    You,  Kate,  I  say!" 

Little  Kate,  not  five  years  old,  leaves  her  play  and  goes 
up  to  where  her  parent  is  sitting. 

"  Go  and  get  me  a  drink  of  water,"  said  he  in  a  harsh 
tone  of  authority." 

Kate  takes  a  tin  cup  from  a  table  and  goes  to  the  hydrant 
in  the  yard.  So  pleased  is  she  in  seeing  the  water  run, 
that  she  forgets  her  errand.  Three  or  four  times  she  fills 
the  cup,  and  then  pours  forth  its  contents,  dipping  her  tiny 
feet  in  the  stream  that  is  made.  In  the  midst  of  her  sport, 
she  hears  an  angry  call,  and  remembering  the  errand  upon 
which  she  has  been  sent,  hurriedly  fills  her  cup  again  and 
bears  it  to  her  father.  She  is  frightened  as  she  comes  in 
and  sees  his  face ;  this  confuses  her ;  her  foot  catches  in 
something  as  she  approaches,  and  she  falls  over,  spilling 
the  cup  of  water  on  his  clothes.  Angrily  he  catches  her 
up,  and,  cruel  in  his  passion,  strikes  her  three  or  four  heavy 
blows. 

"  Now  take  that  cup  and  get  me  some  water!"  he  cries, 
in  a  loud  voice,  "  and  if  you  are  not  here  with  it  in  a 
minute,  I'll  beat  the  life  half  out  of  you  !  I'll  teach  you  to 
mind  when  your  spoken  to,  I  will !  There !  Off  with 
you !" 

Little  Kate,  smarting  from  pain,  and  trembling  with  fear, 
lifts  the  cup  and  hurries  away  to  perform  her  errand. 
She  drops  it  twice  from  her  unsteady  hands  ere  she  is  able 
to  convey  it,  filled  with  water,  to  her  parent,  who  takes  it 
with  such  a  threatening  look  from  his  eyes,  that  the  child 
shrinks  away  from  him,  and  goes  from  the  room  in  fear. 

An  hour  passes,  and  the  light  of  day  begins  to  fade. 


TWO    PICTURES. 
4U 

Evening  comes  slowly  on,   and  at  length   the   darkness 


in^<  You're  late,  Anna,"  says  the  mother,  kindly. 

"Yes,  ma'am.     We  had  to  stay  later  for  our  money 
Mr.  Davis  was  away  from  the  store,  and  I  TO  afraid  I 
would  have  to  come  home  without  it.     Here  it  is. 

Mrs.  Warren  took  the  money.  . 

"Only  a  dollar!"  There  was  disappointment  m  her 
tones  as  she  said  this.  . 

"Yes,  ma'am,  that  is  all,"  replied  Anna,  in  a  troubled 
voice  "  I  spoiled  some  work,  and  Mr.  Davis  said  I  should 
pay  for  it,  and  so  he  took  half  a  dollar  from  my  wages." 

"  Spoiled  your  work  !"  spoke  up  the  father,  who  had 
been  listening.  "  That's  more  of  your  abominable  care 
lessness  !" 

"Indeed,  father,  I  couldn't  help  it,"  said  Anna,  "  one  ot 

the  girls  —  " 

"  Hush  up,  will  you  !  I  want  none  of  your  lying  ex 
cuses.  I  know  you  !  It  was  done  on  purpose,  I  have  not 
the  least  doubt." 

Anna  caught  her  breath,  like  one  suddenly  deprived  of 
air.  Tears  rushed  to  her  eyes  and  commenced  falling 
over  her  cheeks,  while  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  convul 
sively. 

"Come,  now!    None  of  that!"   said  the  cruel  father 
sternly.     "  Stop  your  crying  instantly,  or  I  will  give  you 
something  to  cry  for!     A  pretty  state  of  things,  indeed, 
when  every  word  must  be  answered  by  a  fit  of  crying  !" 

The  poor  child  choked  down  her  feelings  as  best  she 
could,  turning  as  she  did  so  from  her  father,  that  he  might 
not  see  the  still  remaining  traces  of  her  grief  which  it  was 
impossible  at  once  to  hide. 

Not  a  single  dollar  had  the  idle,  drunken  father  earned 
during  the  week,  that  he  had  not  expended  in  self-indul 
gence  ;  and  yet,  in  his  brutality,  he  could  roughly  chide 
this  little  girl,  yet  too  young  for  the  taskmaster,  because  she 
had  lost  half  a  dollar  of  her  week's  earnings  through  an 
accident,  the  very  nature  of  which  he  would  not  hear  ex- 


TWO    PICTURES.  41 

plained.  So  grieved  was  the  poor  child  at  this  unkindness, 
that  when  supper  was  on  the  table  she  shrunk  away  from 
the  room. 

"  Come,  Anna,  to  your  supper,"  called  the  mother. 

"  I  don't  wish  any  thing  to  eat,"  replied  the  child,  in  a 
faint  voice. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  come  and  get  something." 

"  Let  her  alone!"  growls  the  father.  "I  never  humor 
sulky  children.  She  doesn't  deserve  any  supper." 

The  mother  sighs.  While  the  husband  eats  greedily, 
consuming,  himself,  more  than  half  that  is  on  the  table,  she 
takes  but  a  few  mouthfuls,  and  swallows  them  with  difficulty. 

After  supper,  Willy,  who  is  just  thirteen,  and  who  has 
already  been  bound  out  as  an  apprentice  to  a  trade,  comes 
home.  He  has  a  tale  of  suffering  to  tell.  For  some 
fault  his  master  has  beaten  him  until  the  large  purple  welts 
lie  in  meshes  across  his  back  from  his  shoulders  to  his  hips. 

"How  comes  all  this?"  asks  Mr.  Warren.  There  is 
not  the  smallest  sign  of  sympathy  in  his  voice. 

Willy  relates  the  cause,  and  tells  it  truly.  He  was  some 
thing  to  blame,  but  his  fault  needed  not  the  correction  of 
stripes  even  lightly  applied. 

"  Served  you  right !"  said  the  father,  when  the  story 
was  ended.  "  No  business  to  have  acted  so.  Do  as  you 
are  told,  and  mind  your  work,  and  you'll  escape  flogging. 
Otherwise,  I  don't  care  how  often  you  get  it.  You've  been 
spoiled  at  home,  and  it'll  do  you  good  to  toe  the  mark. 
Did  your  master  know  you  were  coming  home  to-night  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  the  boy,  with  trembling  lips,  and  a 
choking  voice. 

"  Then  what  did  you  come  for  ?  To  get  pitied  ?  Do 
right  and  you'll  need  no  pity." 

"  Oh,  James,  don't  speak  so  to  the  child !"  said  Mrs. 
Warren,  unable  to  keep  silence. 

This  was  answered  by  an  angry  look. 
"  You  must  go  back  to  your  master,  boy,"  said  the  fa 
ther,  after  a  pause.     "  When  you  wish  to  come  home,  ask 
his  consent." 

"  He  doesn't  object  to  my  coming  home,"  said  Willy,  his 
voice  still  quivering. 

"  Go  back,  I  tell  you !  Take  your  hat,  there,  and  go 
back.  Don'1*  come  here  any  more  with  your  tales !" 


42  T  W  0     P  I  C  T  U  R  E  S. 

The  boy  glanced  towards  his  mother,  and  read  pity  and 
sympathy  in  her  countenance,  but  she  did  not  countermand 
the  order ;  for  she  knew  that  if  she  did  so,  a  scene  of  vio 
lence  would  follow. 

"  Ask  to  come  home  in  the  morning,"  said  she  to  her 
boy,  as  she  held  his  hand  tightly  in  hers  at  the  door.  He 
gave  her  a  look  of  tender  thankfulness,  and  then  went  forth 
into  the  darkness,  feeling  so  sad  and  wretched  that  he  could 
not  repress  his  tears. 


Seven  years.  And  was  only  this  time  required  to  effect 
such  a  change !  Ah !  rum  is  a  demon !  How  quickly  does 
it  transform  the  tender  husband  and  parent  into  a  cruel 
beast !  Look  upon  these  two  pictures,  ye  who  tarry  long 
at  the  wine  !  Look  at  them,  but  do  not  say  they  are  over 
drawn  !  They  have  in  them  only  the  sober  hues  and  sub 
dued  colors  of  truth. 


BRANDY  AS  A  PREVENTIVE. 


THE  cholera  had  made  its  appearance  in  New  York, 
and  many  deaths  were  occurring  daily.  Among  those 
who  weakly  permitted  themselves  to  feel  an  alarm  amount 
ing  almost  to  terror,  was  a  Mr.  Hobart,  who,  from  the 
moment  the  disease  manifested  itself,  became  infested  with 
the  idea  that  he  would  be  one  of  its  victims. 

u  Doctor,"  said  he  to  his  family  physician,  meeting  him 
one  day  in  the  street,  "  is  there  nothing  which  a  man  can 
take  that  will  act  as  a  preventive  to  cholera  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  do,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"  I  take  a  glass  of  good  brandy  twice  a  day.  One  in 
the  morning  and  the  other  after  dinner." 

"  Indeed!  And  do  you  think  brandy  useful  in  preventing 
the  disease  ?" 

"  I  think  it  a  protection,"  said  the  doctor.  "  It  keeps 
the  system  slightly  stimulated;  and  is,  besides,  a  gooa 
astringent." 

"A  very  simple  agent,"  remarked  Mr.  Hobart. 

"  Yes,  the  most  simple  that  we  can  adopt.  And  what 
is  better,  the  use  of  it  leaves  no  after  bad  consequences,  as 
is  too  often  the  case  with  medicines,  which  act  upon  the 
system  as  poisons." 

"  Sometimes  very  bad  consequences  arise  from  the  use 
of  brandy,"  remarked  Mr.  Hobart.  "  I  have  seen  them  in 
my  time." 

"  Drunkenness,  you  mean." 

"  Yes." 

"  People  who  are  likely  to  make  beasts  of  themselves 
had  better  let  it  alone,"  said  the  doctor,  contemptuously. 
"  If  they  should  take  the  cholera  and  die,  it  will  be  no 
great  loss  to  the  world." 

"  And  you  really  think  a  little  good  brandy,  taken  daily, 
fortifies  the  system  against  the  cholera  ?" 

6  (43) 


44          BRANDY     AS     A     PREVENTIVE. 

«  Seriously  I  do,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  I  have  adopted 
this  course  from  the  first,  and  have  not  been  troubled  with 
a  symptom  of  the  disease." 

"  I  feel  very  nervous  on  the  subject.  From  the  first  I 
have  been  impressed  with  the  idea  that  I  would  get  the 
disease  and  die." 

"  That  is  a  weakness,  Mr.  Hobart." 

"  I  know  it  is,  still  I  cannot  help  it.  And  you  would 
advise  me  to  take  a  little  good  brandy?" 

"  Yes,  every  day." 
1 1  am  a  Son  of  Temperance." 

"  No  matter ;  you  can  take  it  as  medicine  under  my 
prescription.  I  know  a  dozen  Sons  of  Temperance  who 
have  used  brandy  every  day  since  the  disease  appeared  in 
New  York.  It  will  be  no  violation  of  your  contract.  Life 
is  of  too  much  value  to  be  put  in  jeopardy  on  a  mere 
idea." 

"I  agree  with  you  there.  I'd  drink  any  thing  if  I 
thought  it  would  give  me  an  immunity  against  this  dread 
ful  disease." 

"  You'll  be  safer  with  the  brandy  than  without  it." 

"  Very  well.     If  you  think  so,  I  will  use  it." 

On  parting  with  the  doctor,  Mr.  Hobart  went  to  a  liquor 
store  and  ordered  half  a  gallon  of  brandy  sent  home.  He 
did  not  feel  altogether  right  in  doing  so,  for  it  must  be 
understood,  that,  in  years  gone  by,  Mr.  Hobart  had  fallen 
into  the  evil  habit  of  intemperance,  which  clung  to  him 
until  he  run  through  a  handsome  estate  and  beggared  his 
family.  In  this  low  condition  he  was  found  by  the  Sons 
of  Temperance,  who  induced  him  to  abandon  a  course 
whose  end  was  death  and  destruction,  and  to  come  into 
their  Order.  From  that  time  all  was  changed.  Sobriety 
and  industry  were  returned  to  him  in  many  of  the  good 
things  of  this  world  which  he  had  lost,  and  he  was  still  in 
the  upward  movement  at  the  time  when  the  fatal  pestilence 
appeared. 

On  going  home  at  dinner  time,  Hobart  s  wife  said  to 
him,  with  a  serious  face — 

"  A  demijohn,  with  some  kind  of  liquor  in  it,  was  sent 
here  to-day." 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  replied,  "  it  is  brandy  that  Doctor  L • 

ordered  me  to  take  as  a  cholera  preventive." 


BKANDY     AS     A     PREVENTIVE.        45 

"Brandy!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Hobart,  with  an  expression 
of  painful  surprise  in  her  voice  and  on  her  countenance, 
that  rather  annoyed  her  husband. 

"  Yes.  He  says  that  he  takes  it  every  day  as  a  preven 
tive,  and  directed  me  to  do  the  same." 

"  I  wouldn't  touch  it  if  I  were  you.  Indeed  I  wouldn't," 
said  Mrs.  Hobart,  earnestly. 

"  Why  wouldn't  you  ?" 

"  You  will  violate  your  contract  with  the  Sons  of  Tem 
perance." 

"  Not  at  all.  Brandy  may  be  used  as  a  medicine  under 
the  prescription  of  a  physician.  I  wouldn't  have  thought 
of  touching  it  had  not  Doctor  L ordered  me  to  do  so." 

"  You  are  not  sick,  Edward." 

"  But  there  is  death  in  the  very  air  I  breathe.  At  any 
moment  I  am  liable  to  be  struck  down  by  an  arrow  sent 
from  an  unseen  bow,  unless  a  shield  be  interposed.  Such 
a  shield  has  been  placed  in  my  hands.  Shall  I  not 
use  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Hobart  knew  her  husband  well  enough  to  be  satis 
fied  that  remonstrance  and  argument  would  be  of  no  avail, 
now  that  his  mind  was  m  de  up  to  use  the  brandy ;  and 
yet  so  distressed  did  she  feel,  that  she  couldn't  help  saying, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes — 

"  Eaward,  let  me  beg  of  you  not  to  touch  it." 

"  Would  you  rather  see  me  in  my  coffin?"  replied  Mr. 
Hobart,  with  some  bitterness.  "  Death  may  seem  a  light 
thing  to  you,  but  it  is  not  so  to  me." 

"  You  are  not  sick,"  still  urged  the  wife. 

"  But  I  am  liable,  as  I  said  just  now,  to  take  the  disease 
every  moment." 

"  You  will  be  more  liable,  with  your  system  stimulated 
and  disturbed  by  brandy.  Let  well  enough  alone.  Be 
thankful  for  the  health  you  have,  and  do  not  invite 
disease." 

"The  doctor  ought  to  know.  He  understands  the  mat 
ter  better  than  you  or  I.  He  recommends  brandy  as  a  pre 
ventive.  He  takes  it  himself.  " 

"  Because  he  likes  it,  no  doubt." 

"  It  is  silly  for  you  to  talk  in  that  way,"  replied  the 
husband,  with  much  impatience.  "  He  isn't  rendered 


46         BRANDY     AS     A     PREVENTIVE. 

more  liable  to  the  disease  by  taking  a  little  pure  brandy, 
for  he  says  that  it  keeps  him  perfectly  well." 

"  A  glass  of  brandy  every  day  may  have  been  his  usual 
custom,"  urged  Mrs.  Hobart.  "  In  that  case,  in  its  con 
tinuance,  no  change  was  produced.  But  your  system  has 
been  untouched  by  the  fiery  liquid  for  nearly  five  years, 
and  its  sudden  introduction  must  create  disturbance.  It  is 
reasonable." 

"  The  doctor  ought  to  know  best,"  was  replied  to  this. 
"He  has  prescribed  it,  and  I  must  take  it.  Life  is  too 
serious  a  matter  to  be  trifled  with.  'An  ounce  of  pre 
ventive  is  worth  a  pound  of  cure,'  you  know." 

"  I  am  in  equal  danger  with  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Ho 
bart  ;  "  and  so  are  the  children." 

"  Undoubtedly.  And  I  wish  you  all  to  use  a  little 
brandy." 

"  Not  a  drop  of  the  poison  shall  pass  either  my  lips 
or  those  of  the  children,"  replied  Mrs.  Hobart,  with  em 
phasis. 

"  As  you  please,"  said  the  husband,  coldly,  and  turned 
away. 

"  Edward !"  Mrs.  Hobart  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 
"Edward !  Let  me  beg  of  you  not  to  follow  this  advice." 

"  Why  will  you  act  so  foolishly  ?  Has  not  the  doctor 
ordered  the  brandy  ?  I  look  to  him  as  the  earthly  agent 
for  the  preservation  of  my  health  and  the  saving  of  my 
life.  If  I  do  not  regard  his  advice,  in  what  am  I  to 
trust  ?" 

"  Remember  the  past,  Edward,"  said  the  wife,  solemnly. 

"  I  do  remember  it.     But  I  fear  no  danger." 

Mrs.  Hobart  turned  away  sadly,  and  went  up  to  her 
chamber  to  give  vent  to  her  feelings  alone  in  tears. 

Firm  to  his  purpose  of  using  the  preventive  recommended 
by  the  doctor,  Mr.  Hobart,  after  dinner,  took  a  draught  of 
brandy  and  water.  Nearly  five  years,  as  his  wife  re 
marked,  had  elapsed  since  a  drop  of  the  burning  fluid  had 
passed  his  lips.  The  taste  was  not  particularly  agreeable. 
Indeed,  his  stomach  rather  revolted  as  the  flavor  reached 
his  palate. 

"  It's  vile  stuff*  at  best,"  he  remarked  to  himself,  making 
a  wry  face.  "  Fit  only  for  medicine.  Not  much  danger 


BRANDY     AS     A     PREVENTIVE.         47 

of  my  ever  loving  it  again.  I  wish  Anna  was  not  so 
foolish.  A  flattering  opinion  she  has  of  her  husband  !" 

The  sober  countenance  of  his  wife  troubled  Mr.  Hobart, 
as  he  left  home  for  his  place  of  business  earlier  by  half  an 
hour  than  usual.  Neither  in  mind  nor  body  were  his 
sensations  as  pleasant  as  on  the  day  before.  The  brandy 
did  something  more  than  produce  an  agreeable  warmth  in 
his  stomach.  A  burning  sensation  soon  followed  its  intro 
duction,  accompanied  by  a  feeling  of  uneasiness  that  he 
did  not  like.  In  the  course  of  half  an  hour,  this  unnatural 
heat  was  felt  in  every  part  of  his  body,  but  more  particu 
larly  about  his  head  and  face  ;  and  it  was  accompanied  by 
a  certain  confusion  of  mind  that  prevented  his  usual  close 
application  to  business  during  the  afternoon. 

Towards  evening,  these  disagreeable  consequences  of  the 
glass  of  cholera-preventive  he  had  taken  in  a  great  mea 
sure  subsided  ;  but  there  followed  a  dryness  of  the  palate, 
and  a  desire  for  some  drink  more  pleasant  to  the  taste  than 
water.  In  his  store  was  a  large  pitcher  of  ice- water ;  but, 
though  thirsty,  he  felt  no  inclination  to  taste  the  pure 
beverage ;  but,  instead,  went  out  and  obtained  a  glass  of 
soda  water.  This  only  made  the  matter  worse.  The 
half  gill  of  syrup  with  which  the  water  was  sweetened, 
created,  in  a  little  while,  a  more  uneasy  feeling.  Still, 
there  was  no  inclination  for  the  water  that  stood  just  at 
hand,  and  which  he  had  daily  found  so  refreshing  during 
the  hot  weather.  In  fact,  when  he  thought  of  it,  it  was 
with  a  sense  of  repulsion. 

In  this  state,  the  idea  of  a  cool  glass  of  brandy  punch,  or 
a  mint  julep,  came  up  in  his  mind,  and  he  felt  the  draught, 
in  imagination,  at  his  lips. 

"A  little  brandy  twice  a  day  ;  so  the  doctor  said."  This 
was  uttered  half  aloud. 

Just  at  the  moment  a  slight  pain  crossed  his  stomach.  It 
was  the  first  sensation  of  the  kind  he  had  experienced  since 
the  epidemic  he  so  much  dreaded  had  appeared  in  the 
city ;  and  it  caused  a  slight  shudder  to  go  through  his 
frame,  for  he  was  nervous  in  his  fear  of  cholera. 

"  A  little  mint  with  the  brandy  would  make  it  better 
still.  I  don't  like  this  feeling.  I'll  try  a  glass  of  brandy 
and  mint."  Thus  spoke  Mr.  Hobart  to  himself. 

Putting  on  his  hat,  he  went  forth  for  the  purpose  of 


48          BRANDY     AS     A     PREVENTIVE. 

getting  some  brandy  and  mint.  As  he  stepped  into  the 
street  the  pain  was  felt  again,  and  more  distinctly.  The 
effect  was  to  cause  a  slight  perspiration  to  manifest  itself  on 
the  face  and  forehead  of  Mr.  Hobart,  and  to  make,  in  his 
mind,  the  necessity  for  the  brandy  and  mint  more  impera 
tive.  He  did  not  just  like  to  be  seen  going  boldly  in  at 
the  door  of  a  refectory  or  drinking-house  in  a  public  place, 
for  he  was  a  Son  of  Temperance,  and  any  one  who  knew 
this  and  happened  to  see  him  going  in,  could  not,  at  the 
same  time,  know  that  he  was  acting  under  his  physician's 
advice.  So  he  went  off  several  blocks  from  the  neighbor 
hood  in  which  his  store  was  located,  and  after  winding  his 
way  along  a  narrow,  unfrequented  street,  came  to  the  back 
entrance  of  a  tavern,  where  he  went  in,  as  he  desired, 
unobserved. 

Years  before,  Hobart  had  often  stood  at  the  bar  where 
he  now  found  himself.  Old,  familiar  objects  and  associa 
tions  brought  back  old  feelings,  and  he  was  affected  by  an 
inward  glow  of  pleasure. 

"  What !  you  here  ?"  said  a  man  who  stood  at  the  bar, 
with  a  glass  in  his  hand.  He  was  also  a  member  of  the 
Order. 

"  And  you  here !"  replied  Mr.  Hobart. 

"It  isn't  for  the  love  of  it,  I  can  assure  you,"  remarked 
the  man,  as  he  looked  meaningly  at  his  glass.  "  These  are 
not  ordinary  times." 

"  You  are  right  there,"  said  Hobart. 

"A  little  brandy  sustains  and  fortifies  the  system.  That 
all  admit." 

"  My  physician  has  ordered  it  for  me.  He  takes  a  glass 
or  two  every  day  himself,  and  tells  me  that,  so  far,  he  has 
not  been  troubled  with  the  first  symptom." 

u  Indeed.     That  is  testimony  to  the  point." 

"  So  I  think." 

"  Who  is  your  physician  ?" 

«  Dr.  L ." 

"  He  stands  high.  I  would  at  any  time  trust  my  life  in 
his  hands." 

"  I  am  willing  to  do  so."  Then  turning  to  the  bar 
keeper,  Mr.  Hobart  said — «  I'll  take  a  glass  of  brandy  and 
water,  and  you  may  add  some  mint." 

"Perhaps  you'll  have  a  mint  julep?"  suggested  the  bar- 


BRANDY     AS     A     PREVENTIVE.          49 

keeper,  winking  aside  to  a  man  who  stood  near,  listening  to 
what  passed  between  the  two  members  of  the  Order. 

"  Yes — I  don't  care — yes.  Make  it  a  julep,"  returned 
Hobart.  "  It's  the  brandy  and  mint  I  want.  I've  had  a 
disagreeable  sensation,"  he  added,  speaking  to  the  friend 
he  had  met,  and  drawing  his  hand  across  his  stomach  as  he 
spoke,  "  that  I  don't  altogether  like.  Here  it  is  again !" 

"  A  little  brandy  will  help  it." 

"  I  hope  so." 

When  the  mint  julep  was  ready,  Hobart  took ,  it  in  his 
hand  and  retired  to  a  table  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  and 
the  man  he  had  met  went  with  him. 

"Ain't  you  afraid  to  tamper  with  liquor?"  asked  this 
person,  a  little  seriously,  as  he  observed  the  relish  with 
which  Hobart  sipped  the  brandy.  Some  thoughts  had 
occurred  to  himself  that  were  not  very  pleasant. 

"  Oh,  no.  Not  in  the  least,"  replied  Mr.  Hobart.  "  I 
only  take  it  as  a  medicine,  under  my  physician's  order ; 
and  I  can  assure  you  that  the  taste  is  quite  as  disagreeable 
as  rhubarb  would  be.  I  believe  the  old  fondness  has  alto 
gether  died  out." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  never  dies  out,"  said  the  man,  whose 
eyes  told  him  plainly  enough,  that  it  had  not  died  out  in 
the  case  of  the  individual  before  him,  notwithstanding  his 
averment  on  the  subject. 

"  I  feel  much  better  now,"  said  Mr.  Hobart,  after  he 
had  nearly  exhausted  his  glass.  "  I  had  such  a  cold  sen 
sation  in  my  stomach,  accompanied  by  a  very  disagreeable 
pain.  But  both  are  now  gone.  This  brandy  and  mint 

have  acted  like  a  charm.  Dr.  L understands  the 

matter  clearly.  It  is  fortunate  that  I  saw  him  this  morning. 
I  would  not  have  dared  to  touch  brandy,  unless  under 
medical  advice  ;  and,  but  for  the  timely  use  of  it,  I  might 
have  been  dangerously  ill  with  this  fatal  epidemic." 

After  sitting  a  little  while  longer,  the  two  men  retired 
through  the  back  entrance  to  escape  observation. 

"How quickly  these  temperance  men  seize  hold  of  any 
excuse  to  get  a  glass  of  brandy,"  said  the  bar-keeper  to  a 
customer,  as  soon  as  Hobart  had  retired,  laughing  in  a  half 
sneer  as  he  spoke.  "  They  come  creeping  in  through  our 
back  way,  and  all  of  them  have  a  pain!  Ha!  ha !" 

"  I've  taken  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water,  every  day  for 


50          BRANDY    AS     A    PREVENTIVE. 

the  last  five  years,"  replied  the  man  to  whom  this  was  ad 
dressed,  "  and  I  continue  it  now.  But  I  can  tell  you  what, 
if  I'd  been  an  abstainer,  you  wouldn't  catch  me  pouring  it 
into  my  stomach  now.  Not  I!  All  who  do  so  are  more 
liable  to  the  disease." 

"  So  I  think,"  said  the  bar-tender.  "  But  every  one  to 
his  liking.  It  puts  money  in  our  till.  We've  done  a  bet 
ter  business  since  the  cholera  broke  out,  than  we've  done 
these  three  years.  If  it  were  to  continue  for  a  twelve 
month  we  would  make  a  fortune." 

This  was  concluded  with  a  coarse  laugh,  and  then  he 
went  to  attend  to  a  new  customer  for  drink. 

For  all  Mr.  Hobart  had  expressed  himself  so  warmly  in 
favor  of  brandy,  and  had  avowed  his  freedom  from  the  old 
appetite,  he  did  not  feel  altogether  right  about  the  matter. 
There  was  a  certain  pressure  upon  his  feelings  that  he  could 
not  well  throw  off.  When  he  went  home  in  the  evening, 
he  perceived  a  shadow  on  the  brow  of  his  wife  ;  and  the 
expression  of  her  eyes,  when  she  looked  at  him,  annoyed 
and  troubled  him. 

After  supper,  the  uneasiness  he  had  felt  during  the  after 
noon,  returned,  and  worried  his  mind  considerably.  The 
fact  was,  the  brandy  had  already  disturbed  the  well  balanced 
action  of  the  lower  viscera.  The  mucous  membrane  of  the 
whole  alementary  canal  had  been  stimulated  beyond  health, 
and  its  secretions  were  increased  and  slightly  vitiated. 
This  was  the  cause  of  the  uneasiness  he  felt,  and  the  slight 
pains  which  had  alarmed  him.  By  ten  o'clock  his  feelings 
had  become  so  disagreeable,  that  he  felt  constrained  to 
meet  them  with  another  "  mouthful,"  of  brandy.  Thus, 
in  less  than  ten  hours,  Mr.  Hobart  had  wronged  his  stomach 
by  pouring  into  it  three  glasses  of  brandy ;  entirely  disturb 
ing  its  healthy  action. 

The  morning  found  Mr.  Hobart  far  from  feeling  well. 
His  skin  was  dry  and  feverish  and  his  mouth  parched. 
There  was  an  uneasy  sensation  of  pain  in  his  head.  Im 
mediately  upon  rising  he  took  a  strong  glass  of  brandy. 
That,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  brought  him  up,"  and  made 
him  feel  "a  hundred  per  cent  better."  During  the  fore 
noon,  however,  a  slight  diarrhoea  manifested  itself.  A 
thrill  of  alarm  was  the  consequence. 

"I  must  check  this!"    said  he,   anxiously.    And,   in 


BRANDY     AS     A     PREVENTIVE.          51 

order  to  do  so,  another  and  stronger  glass  of  brandy  was 
taken. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  diarrhoea  appeared  again.  It  was 
still  slight,  and  unaccompanied  by  pain.  But,  it  was  a 
symptom  not  to  be  disregarded.  So  brandy  was  applied 
as  before.  In  the  evening,  it  showed  itself  again. 

"  I  wish  you  would  give  me  a  little  of  that  brandy," 
said  he  to  his  wife.  "I'm  afraid  of  this,  it  must  be 
stopped." 

"Hadn't  you  better  see  the  doctor?" 

"  I  don't  think  it  necessary.  The  brandy  will  answer 
every  purpose." 

"I  have  no  faith  in  brandy,"  said  Mrs.  Hobart.  "  Poor 
woman  !  she  had  cause  for  her  want  of  faith ! 

"  I  have  then,"  replied  her  husband.  "  It's  the  doctor's 
recommendation.  And  he  ought  to  know." 

"  You  were  perfectly  well  before  you  commenced  acting 
on  his  advice." 

"  I  was  well,  apparently.  But,  it  is  plain  that  the  seeds 
of  disease  were  in  me.  There  is  no  telling  how  much 
worse  I  would  have  been." 

"  Nor  how  much  better.  For  my  part  I  charge  it  all  on 
the  brandy." 

"  That's  a  silly  prejudice,"  said  Mr.  Hobart,  with  a 
good  deal  of  impatience.  "  Every  one  knows  that  brandy 
is  a  remedy  in  diseases  of  this  kind  ;  not  a  producing 
cause." 

Mrs.  Hobart  was  silent.  But  she  did  not  get  the  brandy. 
That  was  more  than  she  could  do.  So  her  husband  got  it 
himself.  But,  in  order  to  make  the  medicinal  purpose 
more  apparent,  he  poured  the  liquor  into  a  deep  plate, 
added  some  sugar,  and  set  it  on  fire. 

"  You  will  not  object  to  burnt  brandy  at  least,"  said  he. 
"  That  you  know  to  be  good." 

Mrs.  Hobart  did  not  reply.  She  felt  that  it  would  be 
useless.  Only  a  disturbance  of  harmony  could  arise,  and 
that  would  produce  greater  unhappiness.  The  brandy, 
after  having  parted  with  its  more  volatile  qualities,  was 
introduced  into  Mr.  Hobart's  stomach,  and  fretted  that  deli 
cate  organ  for  more  than  an  hour. 

"  I  thought  the  burnt  brandy  would  be  effective,"  said 
Mr.  Hobart  on  the  next  morning.  "  And  it  has  proved 

7 


52         BRANDY    AS     A     PREVENTIVE. 

so."  In  order  not  to  lose  this  good  effect,  he  fortified  him 
self  before  going  out  with  some  of  the  same  article,  un- 
burnt.  But,  alas !  By  ten  o'clock  the  diarrhoea  showed 
itself  again,  and  in  a  more  decided  form. 

Oh  dear !"  said  he  in  increased  alarm.  "  This  won't  do. 
I  must  see  the  doctor."  And  off  he  started  for  Doctor 

L 's  office.     But,  on  the  way  he  could  not  resist  the 

temptation  to  stop  at  a  tavern  for  another  glass  of  brandy, 
notwithstanding  he  began  to  entertain  a  suspicion  as  to  the 
true  cause  of  the  disturbance.  The  doctor  happened  to  be 
in.  "  I  think  I'd  better  have  a  little  medicine,  doctor," 
said  he,  on  seeing  his  medical  adviser.  A  stitch  in  time, 
you  know." 

"Ain't  you  well?" 

"  No,"  and  Mr.  Hobart  gave  his  symptoms. 

"  An  opium  pill  will  do  all  that  is  required,"  said  the 
doctor. 

"  Shall  I  continue  the  brandy  ?"  asked  the  patient. 

"  Have  you  taken  brandy  every  day  since  I  saw  you  ?" 
inquired  the  doctor. 

"Yes  ;  twice,  and  sometimes  three  times." 

"  Ah  !"    The  doctor  looked  thoughtful. 

"  Shall  I  continue  to  do  so  ?" 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  omit  it  for  the  present.  You're 
not  in  the  habit  of  drinking  any  thing  ?" 

"  No.     I  haven't  tasted  brandy  before  for  five  years." 

"  Indeed  !  Yes,  now,  I  remember  you  said  so.  You'd 
better  omit  it  until  we  see  the  effect  of  the  opium.  Sud 
den  changes  are  not  always  good  in  times  like  these." 

"  I  don't  think  the  brandy  has  hurt  me,"  said  Mr.  Hobart. 

"  Perhaps  not.  Still,  as  a  matter  of  prudence,  I  would 
avoid  it.  Let  the  opium  have  a  full  chance,  and  all  will  be 
right  again." 

An  opium  pill  was  swallowed,  and  Mr.  Hobart  went 
back  to  his  place  of  business.  It  had  the  intended  effect 
That  is,  it  cured  one  disease  by  producing  another — sus 
pended  action  took  the  place  of  over-action.  He  was, 
therefore,  far  from  being  in  a  state  of  health,  or  free  from 
danger  in  a  cholera  atmosphere. 

There  was  one  part  of  the  doctor's  order  that  Mr.  Ho 
bart  did  not  comply  with.  The  free  use  of  brandy  for  a 
few  days  rekindled  the  old  appetite,  and  made  his  desire 


BRANDY     AS     A    PREVENTIVE.         53 

for  liquor  so  intense,  that  he  had  not,  or,  if  he  possessed 
it,  did  not  exercise  the  power  of  resistance. 

Sad  beyond  expression  was  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Hobart, 
when  evening  came,  and  her  husband  returned  home  so 
much  under  the  influence  of  drink  as  to  show  it  plainly. 
She  said  nothing  to  him,  then,  for  that  she  knew  would  be 
of  no  avail.  But  next  morning,  as  he  was  rising,  she  said 
to  him  earnestly  and  almost  tearfully. 

"  Edward,  let  me  beg  of  you  to  reflect  before  you  go  further 
in  the  way  you  have  entered.  You  may  not  be  aware  of 
it,  but  last  night  you  showed  so  plainly  that  you  had  been 
drinking  that  I  was  distressed  beyond  measure.  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do,  where  this  will  end,  if  continued. 
Stop,  then,  at  once,  while  you  have  the  power  to  stop. 
As  to  preventing  disease,  it  is  plain  that  the  use  of  brandy 
has  not  done  so  in  your  case  ;  but,  rather,  acted  as  a  pre 
disposing  cause.  You  were  perfectly  well  before  you 
touched  it ;  you  have  not  been  well  since.  Look  at  this 
fact,  and,  as  a  wise  man,  regard  its  indications." 

Truth  was  so  strong  in  the  words  of  his  wife,  that  Mr. 
Hobart  did  not  attempt  to  gainsay  them. 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,"  he  replied  with  a  good  deal 
of  depression  apparent  in  his  manner.  "  I  wish  the  doc 
tor  had  kept  his  brandy  advice  to  himself.  It  has  done  me 
no  good." 

"  It  has  done  you  harm,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Perhaps  it  has.  Ah,  me !  I  wish  the  cholera  would 
subside." 

"  I  think  your  fear  is  too  great,"  returned  Mrs.  Hobart. 
"  Go  on  in  your  usual  way  ;  keep  your  mind  calm  ;  be  as 
careful  in  regard  to  diet,  and  you  need  fear  no  danger." 

"  I  wish  I'd  let  the  brandy  alone!"  sighed  Mr.  Hobart, 
who  felt  as  he  spoke,  the  desire  for  another  draught. 

"  So  do  I.  Doctor  L must  have  been  mad  when 

he  advised  it." 

"  So  I  now  think.  I  heard  yesterday  of  two  or  three 
members  of  our  Order  who  have  been  sick,  and  every  one 
of  them  used  a  little  brandy  as  a  preventive." 

"  It  is  bad — bad.  Common  sense  teaches  this.  Nc 
jrreat  change  of  habit  is  good  in  a  tainted  atmosphere. 
But  you  see  this  now,  happily,  and  all  will  yet  be  w&!  i 
trust." 


54         BRANDY     AS     A     PREVENTIVE. 

"  Yes ;  I  hope  so.  I  shall  touch  no  more  of  this  brandy- 
preventive.  To  that  my  mind  is  fully  made  up." 

Mrs.  Hobart  felt  hopeful  when  she  parted  with  her  hus 
band.  But  she  knew  nothing  of  the  real  conflict  going  on 
in  his  mind  between  reason  and  awakened  appetite — else 
had  she  trembled  and  grown  faint  in  spirit.  This  conflict 
went  on  for  some  hours,  when,  alas  !  appetite  conquered. 

At  dinner  time  Mrs.  Hobart  saw  at  a  glance  how  it  was. 
The  whole  manner  of  her  husband  had  changed.  His  state 
of  depression  was  gone,  and  he  exhibited  an  unnatural 
exhilaration  of  spirits.  She  needed  not  the  sickening  odor 
of  his  breath  to  tell  the  fatal  secret  that  he  had  been 
unable  to  control  himself. 

It  was  worse  at  night.  He  came  home  so  much  beside 
himself  that  he  could  with  difficulty  walk  erectly.  Half 
conscious  of  his  condition,  he  did  not  attempt  to  join  the 
family,  but  went  up  stairs  and  groped  his  way  to  bed. 
Mrs.  Hobart  did  not  follow  him  to  his  chamber.  Heart 
sick,  she  retired  to  another  room,  and  there  wept  bitterly 
for  more  than  an  hour.  She  was  hopeless.  Up  from  the 
melancholy  past  arose  images  of  degradation  and  suffering, 
too  dreadful  to  contemplate.  She  felt  that  she  had  not 
strength  to  suffer  again  as  she  had  suffered  through  many, 
many  years.  From  this  state  she  was  aroused  by  groans 
from  the  room  where  her  husband  lay.  Alarmed  by  the 
sounds,  she  instantly  went  to  him. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Oh!  oh!  I  am  in  so  much  pain  !"  was  groaned  half 
inarticulately. 

"  In  pain,  where  ?" 

"  Oh  !  oh  !"  -wis  repeated,  in  a  tone  of  suffering  ;  and 
then  he  commenced  vomiting. 

Mrs.  Hobart  placed  her  hand  upon  his  forehead  and  found 
it  cold  and  clammy.  Other  and  more  painful  symptoms 
followed.  _  Before  the  doctor,  who  was  immediately  sum 
moned,  arrived,  his  whole  system  had  become  prostrate, 
and  was  fast  sinking  into  a  state  of  collapse.  It  was  a  de 
cided  case  of  cholera. 

"  Has  he  been  eating  any  thing  improper  ?"  asked  Doctor 

L ,  after  administering  such   remedies,  and   ordering 

such  treatment  as  he  deemed  the  case  required. 


BRANDY     AS     A     PREVENTIVE.         55 

"  Has  he  eaten  no  green  fruit?" 

"  None." 

"Nothing,  to  my  knowledge,  replied  Mrs.  Hobart. 
"  We  have  been  very  careful  in  regard  to  food." 

"  Nor  unripe  vegetables  ?" 

Mrs.  Hobart  shook  her  head. 

"  Nor  fish  ?" 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  That  is  strange.     He  was  well  a  few  days  ago." 

"  Yes,  perfectly,  until  he  began  to  take  a  little  brandy 
every  day  as  a  preventive." 

"Ah!"  The  doctor  looked  thoughtful.  "But  it 
couldn't  have  been  that.  I  take  a  little  pure  brandy 
every  day,  and  find  it  good.  I  recommend  it  to  all  my 
patients." 

Mrs.  Hobart  sighed.  Then  she  asked — "Do  you  think 
him  dangerous?" 

"  I  hope  not.  The  attack  is  sudden  and  severe.  But 
much  worse  cases  recover.  I  will  call  round  again  before 
bed  time." 

The  doctor  went  away  feeling  far  from  comfortable. 
Only  a  few  hours  before  he  had  left  a  man  sick  with 
cholera  beyond  recovery,  who  had,  to  his  certain  know 
ledge,  adopted  the  brandy-drinking-preventive-system  but 
a  week  before ;  and  that  at  his  recommendation.  And  here 
was  another  case. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Dr.  L called  to  see  Mr.  Hobart 

again,  and  found  him  rapidly  sinking.  Not  a  single  symp 
tom  had  been  reached  by  his  treatment.  The  poor  man 
was  in  great  pain.  Every  muscle  in  his  body  seemed 
affected  by  cramps  and  spasms.  His  mind,  however,  was 
perfectly  clear.  As  the  doctor  sat  feeling  his  pulse, 
Hobart  said  to  him — 

"  Doctor  L ,  it  is  too  late  !" 

"  Oh,  no.  It  is  never  too  late,"  replied  the  doctor. 
"  Don't  think  of  death  ;  think  of  life,  and  that  will  help  to 
sustain  you.  You  are  not,  by  any  means,  at  the  last  point. 
Hundreds,  worse  than  you  now  are,  come  safely  through. 
I  don't  intend  to  let  you  slip  through  my  hands." 

"Doctor,"  said  the  sick  man,  speaking  in  a  solemn 
voice,  "  I  feel  that  I  am  beyond  the  reach  of  medicine.  I 
shall  die.  What  I  now  say  I  do  not  mean  as  a  reproach. 


56          BRANDY     AS     A     PREVENTIVE. 

I  speak  it  only  as  a  truth  right  for  you  to  know.  Do  you 
See  nay  poor  wife  ?" 

The  doctor  turned  his  eyes  upon  Mrs.  Hobart,  who  stood 
weeping  by  the  bedside. 

"  When  she  is  left  a  widow,  and  my  children  orphans," 
"continued  the  patient,  "  remember  that  you  have  made 
them  such!" 

"Me!  Why  do  you  say  that,  Mr.  Hobart?"  The 
doctor  looked  startled. 

"  Because  it  is  the  truth.  I  was  a  well  man,  when  you, 
as  my  medical  adviser,  recommended  me  to  drink  brandy 
as  a  protection  against  disease.  I  was  in  fear  of  the  in 
fection,  and  followed  your  prescription.  From  the  moment 
I  took  the  first  draught  my  body  lost  its  healthy  equilibrium ; 
and  not  only  my  body,  but  my  mind.  I  was  a  reformed 
man,  and  the  taste  inflamed  the  old  appetite.  From  that 
time  until  now  I  have  not  been  really  sober." 

The  doctor  was  distressed  and  confounded  by  this 
declaration.  He  had  feared  that  such  was  the  case ;  but 
now  it  was  charged  unequivocally. 

"  I  am  pained  at  all  this,"  he  replied,  "  In  sinning  I 
sinned  ignorantly." 

But,  ere  he  could  finish  his  reply,  the  sick  man  became 
suddenly  worse,  and  sunk  into  a  state  of  insensibility. 

"  If  it  be  in  human  power  to  save  his  life,"  murmured 
the  doctor — "  I  will  save  it." 

Through  the  whole  night  he  remained  at  the  bed-side, 
giving,  with  his  own  hands,  all  the  remedies,  and  applying 
every  curative  means  within  reach.  But,"  when  the  day 
broke,  there  was  little,  if  any  change  for  the  better.  He 
then  went  home,  but  returned  in  a  couple  of  hours. 

"  How  is  your  husband  ?"  he  asked  of  the  pale-faced 
wife  as  he  entered.  She  did  not  reply,  and  they  went  up 
to  the  chamber  together.  A  deep  silence  reigned  in  the 
room  as  they  entered. 

"  Is  he  asleep?"  whispered  the  doctor. 

"  See !"     The  wife  threw  back  the  sheet. 

"  0 !"  was  the  only  sound  that  escaped  the  doctor's  lips. 
It  was  a  prolonged  sound,  and  uttered  in  a  tone  of  exquisite 
distress.  The  white  and  ghastly  face  of  death  was  before  him. 

"  It  is  your  work !"  murmured  the  unhappy  woman,  half 
beside  herself  in  her  affliction. 


BRANDY     AS     A     PREVENTIVE.          57 

"Madam!  do  not  say  that!"  ejaculated  the  physician. 
"Do  not  say  that!" 

"  It  is  the  truth  !  Did  he  not  charge  it  upon  you  with 
his  dying  breath  ?" 

"  I  did  all  for  the  best,  madam  !  all  for  the  best !  It  was 
an  error  in  his  case.  But  I  meant  him  no  harm." 

"  You  put  poison  to  his  lips,  and  destroyed  him.  You 
have  made  his  wife  a  widow  and  his  children  orphans !" 

"  Madam ! — "  The  doctor  knit  his  brows  and  spoke  in  a 
stern  voice.  But,  ere  he  had  uttered  a  word  more,  the 
stricken-hearted  woman  gave  a  wild  scream  and  fell  upon 
the  floor.  Nature  had  been  tried  beyond  the  point  of  en 
durance,  and  reason  was  saved  at  the  expense  of  physical 
prostration. 

A  few  weeks  later,  and  Doctor  L ,  in  driving  past 

the  former  residence  of  MJ,  Hobart,  saw  furniture  cars  at 
the  door.  The  family  were  removing.  Death  had  taken 
the  husband  and  father,  arid  the  poor  widow  was  going 
forth  with  her  little  ones  from  the  old  and  pleasant  home,  to 
gather  them  around  her  in  a  smaller  and  poorer  place.  His 
feelings  at  the  moment  mone  need  envy. 

How  many,  like  Mr.  Hobart,  have  died  through  the 
insane  prescription  of  brandy  as  a  preventive  to  cholera ! 
and  how  many  more  have  fallen  back  into  old  habits,  and 
become  hopeless  drunkards !  Brandy  is  not  good  for  health 
at  any  time ;  how  much  less  so,  when  the  very  air  we 
breathe  is  filled  with  a  subtle  poison,  awaiting  the  least  dis 
turbance  in  the  human  economy  to  affect  it  with  disease. 


THE 


TEMPERANCE    PLEDGE, 


"  I  WANT  a  quarter  of  a  dollar,  Jane." 

This  was  addressed  by  a  miserable  creature,  bloated  and 
disfigured  by  intemperance,  to  a  woman,  whose  thin,  pale 
face,  and  heart-broken  look,  told  but  too  plainly  that  she 
was  the  drunkard's  wife. 

"  Not  a  quarter  of  a  dollar,  John  ?  Surely  you  will  not 
waste  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  of  my  hard  earnings,  when  you 
know  that  I  can  scarcely  get  food  and  decent  clothes  for 
the  children  ?" 

As  the  wife  said  this,  she  looked  up  into  her  husband's 
face  with  a  sad  appealing  expression. 

"  I  must  have  a  quarter,  Jane,"  said  the  man  firmly. 

"  0,  John !  remember  our  little  ones.  The  cold- weather 
will  soon  be  here,  and  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  get  them 
shoes.  If  you  will  not  earn  any  thing  yourself,  do  not  waste 
the  little  my  hard  labor  can  procure.  Will  not  a  sixpence 
do  ?  Surely  that  is  enough  for  you  to  spend  for " 

"  Nothing  will  do  but  a  quarter,  Jane,  and  that  I  must 
have,  if  I  steal  it !"  was  the  prompt  and  somewhat  earnest 
reply. 

Mrs.  Jarvis  laid  aside  her  work  mechanically  and,  rising, 
went  to  a  drawer,  and  from  a  cup  containing  a  single  dol 
lar  in  small  pieces,  her  little  all,  took  out  a  quarter  of  a 
dollar,  and  turning  to  her  husband,  said,  as  she  handed  it 
to  him — 

"  Remember,  that  you  are  taking  the  bread  out  of  your 
children's  mouths !" 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that,  I  hope,  Jane,"  said  the  drunkard, 
as  he  clutched  the  money  eagerly  ;  something  like  a  feeble 
smile  flitting  across  his  disfigured  and  distorted  countenance. 

"  Yes,  and  worse !"  was  the  response,  made  in  a  sadder 
tone  than  that  in  which  the  wife  had  at  first  spoken. 

"  How  worse,  Jane  ?" 

"  John !"  and  the  wife  spoke  with  a  sudden  energy, 
58 


THE     TEMPERANCE     PLEDGE.  59 

while  her  countenance  lighted  up  with  a  strange  gleam. 
"John,  I  cannot  bear  this  much  longer!  I  feel  myself 
sinking  every  day.  And  you — you  who  pledged  your 
self » 

Here  the  voice  of  the  poor  woman  gave  way,  and  cover 
ing  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  bent  her  head  upon  her 
bosom,  and  sobbed  and  wept  hysterically. 

The  drunkard  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then 
turning  hurriedly,  passed  from  the  room.  For  some  mo 
ments  after  the  door  had  closed  upon  her  husband,  did 
Mrs.  Jarvis  stand,  sobbing  and  weeping.  Then  slowly 
returning  to  her  chair  near  the  window,  she  resumed  her 
work,  with  an  expression  of  countenance  that  was  sad  and 
hopeless. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  poor  wretch  who  had  thus  reduced 
his  family  to  a  state  of  painful  destitution,  after  turning 
away  from  his  door,  walked  slowly  along  the  street  with  his 
head  bowed  down,  as  if  engaged  in,  to  him,  altogether  a 
new  employment,  that  of  self-communion.  All  at  once  a 
hand  was  laid  familiarly  upon  his  shoulders,  and  a  well- 
known  voice  said — 

"  Come,  John,  let's  have  a  drink." 

"  Jarvis  looked  up  with  a  bewildered  air,  and  the  first 
thing  that  caught  his  eye,  after  it  glanced  away  from  the 
face  of  one  of  his  drinking  cronies,  was  a  sign  with  bright 
gold  letters,  bearing  the  words,  "  EAGLE  COFFEE-HOUSE." 
That  sign  was  as  familiar  to  him  as  the  face  of  one  of  his 
children.  At  the  same  moment  that  his  eyes  rested  upon 
this,  creating  an  involuntary  impulse  to  move  towards  the 
tavern-door,  his  old  crony  caught  hold  of  his  coat-collar 
and  gave  him  a  pull  in  the  same  direction.  But  much  to 
the  surprise  of  the  latter,  Jarvis  resisted  this  attempt  to  give 
his  steps  a  direction  that  would  lead  him  into  his  old,  ac 
customed  haunt. 

"  Won't  you  drink  this  morning,  Jarvis  ?"  asked  the 
other,  with  a  look  of  surprise. 

There  was  evidently  a  powerful  struggle  going  on  in 
the  mind  of  the  drunkard.  This  lasted  only  for  a  moment 
or  two,  when  he  said,  loudly,  and  emphatically — 

"No!" 

And  instantly  broke  from  his  old  boon  companion,  and 
hurried  on  his  way. 

8 


60          THE     TEMPERANCE     PLEDGE. 

A  loud  laugh  followed  him,  but  he  heeded  it  not.  Ten 
minutes'  walk  brought  him  to  the  store  of  a  respectable 
tradesman. 

"  Is  Mr.  R  -  in  ?"  he  asked,  as  he  entered. 

"  Back  at  the  desk,"  was  the  answer  of  a  clerk. 

And  Jarvis  walked  back  with  a  resolute  air, 

«  Mr.  R  -  ,  I  want  to  sign  the  pledge!" 

"You,  Jarvis?"  Mr.  R  -  said,  in  tones  of  gratified 
surprise. 

"  Yes,  me,  Mr.  R  -  .  It's  almost  a  hopeless  case  ; 
but  here  goes  to  do  my  best." 

"  Are  you  fully  sensible  of  what  you  are  about  doing, 


"  I  think  I  am,  Mr.  R  -  .  I've  drunk  nothing  since 
yesterday  morning,  and  with  the  help  of  Him  above,  I  am 
determined  never  to  drink  another  drop  as  long  as  I  live  ! 
So  read  me  the  pledge  and  let  me  sign  it." 

Mr.  R  -  turned  at  once  to  the  constitution  of  the 
Washington  Temperance  Society,  and  read  the  pledge  there 
unto  annexed  : 

"  *  We,  the  undersigned,  do  pledge  ourselves  to  each 
other,  as  gentlemen,  that  we  will  not,  hereafter,  drink  any 
spiritous  liquors,  wine,  rnalt,  or  cider,  unless  in  sickness, 
and  under  the  prescription  of  a  physician.'  " 

Jarvis  took  the  pen  in  his  hand,  that  trembled  so  he 
could  scarcely  make  a  straight  mark  on  paper,  and  enrolled 
his  name  among  the  hundreds  of  those,  who,  like  him,  had 
resolved  to  be  men  once  more.  This  done,  he  laid  down 
the  quarter  of  a  dollar  which  he  had  obtained  from  his  wife, 
the  admission  fee  required  of  all  who  joined  the  society.  As 
he  turned  from  the  tradesman's  store,  his  step  was  firmer 
and  his  head  more  erect,  than,  in  a  sober  state,  he  had 
carried  it  for  many  a  day. 

From  thence  he  proceeded  to  a  hatter's-shop. 

"  Well,  Jarvis,"  was  uttered  in  rather  a  cool,  repulsive 
tone,  as  he  entered. 

"Are  you  not  in  want  of  a  journeyman,  Mr.  Warren  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  you,  Jarvis." 

"If  you  will  give  me  work,  I'll  never  get  drunk  again, 
Mr.  Warren." 

"  You've  said  that  too  many  times,  Jarvis.  The  last 
time  you  went  off  when  I  was  hurried  with  work,  and 


THE     TEMPERANCE     PLEDGE.          61 

caused  me  to  disappoint  a  customer,  I  determined  never  to 
have  any  thing  more  to  do  with  you." 

"  But  I'll  never  disappoint  you  again,"  urged  the  poor 
man  earnestly. 

"  It's  no  use  for  you  to  talk  to  me,  Jarvis.  You  and  I 
are  done  with  each  other.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  never 
again  to  have  a  man  in  my  shop  who  drinks  rum." 

"  But  I've  joined  the  temperance  society,  Mr.  Warren." 

"  I  don't  care  if  you  have  :  in  two  weeks  you'll  be  lying 
in  the  gutter." 

"  I'll  never  drink  liquor  again  if  I  die!"  said  Jarvis, 
solemnly." 

"  Look  here,  you  drunken  vagabond !"  returned  the 
master  hatter  in  angry  tones,  coming  from  behind  the  coun 
ter,  and  standing  in  front  of  the  individual  he  was  address 
ing — "  if  you  are  not  out  of  this  shop  in  two  minutes  by 
the  watch,  I'll  kick  you  into  the  street !  So  there  now — 
take  your  choice  to  go  out,  or  be  kicked  out." 

Jarvis  turned  sadly  away  without  a  reply,  and  passed  out 
of  the  door  through  which  he  had  entered  with  a  heart  full 
of  hope,  now  pained,  and  almost  ready  to  recede  from  his 
earnest  resolution  and  pledge  to  become  a  sober  man  and 
a  better  husband  and  father.  He  felt  utterly  discouraged. 
As  he  walked  slowly  along  the  street,  the  fumes  of  a 
coffee-house  which  he  was  passing,  unconsciously,  struck 
upon  his  sense,  and  immediately  came  an  almost  overpower 
ing  desire  for  his  accustomed  potation.  He  paused — 

"  Now  that  I  try  to  reform,  they  turn  against  me,"  he 
sighed  bitterly.  "  It  is  no  use  ;  I  am  gone  past  hope  !" 

One  step  was  taken  towards  the  tavern-door,  when  it 
seemed  as  if  a  strong  hand  held  him  back. 

"No — no!"  he  murmured,  "I  have  taken  the  pledge, 
and  I  will  stand  by  it,  if  I  die  !" 

Then  moving  resolutely  onward,  he  soon  found  himself 
near  the  door  of  another  hatter's-shop.  Hope  again  kindled 
up  in  his  bosom,  and  he  entered. 

"  Don't  you  want  a  hand,  Mr.  Mason  ?"  he  asked,  in  a 
hesitating  tone. 

"  Not  a  drunken  one,  Jarvis,"  was  the  repulsive  answer. 

"  But  I've  reformed,  Mr.  Mason." 

"  So  I  should  think  from  your  looks." 


62          THE     TEMPERANCE     PLEDGE. 

"But,  indeed,  Mr.  Mason  I  have  quit  drinking,  and 
taken  the  pledge." 

"  To  break  it  in  three  days.    Perhaps  three  hours." 

"  Won't  you  give  me  work,  Mr.  Mason,  if  I  promise  to 
be  sober  ?" 

"  No !  For  I  would  not  give  a  copper  for  your  pro 
mises." 

Poor  Jarvis,  turned  away.  When  he  had  placed  his 
hand  to  the  pledge,  he  dreamed  not  of  these  repulses  and 
difficulties.  He  was  a  good  workman,  and  he  thought 
that  any  one  of  his  old  employers  would  be  glad  to  get  him 
back  again,  so  soon  as  they  learned  of  his  having  signed 
the  total-abstinence  pledge.  But  he  had  so  often  promised 
amendment,  and  so  often  broken  his  promise  and  disap 
pointed  them,  that  they  had  lost  all  confidence  in  him  ;  at 
least,  the  two  to  whom  he  had,  thus  far,  made  application. 

After  leaving  the  shop  of  Mr.  Mason,  Jarvis  seemed  al 
together  irresolute.  He  would  walk  on  a  few  steps,  and 
then  pause  to  commune  with  his  troubled  and  bewildered 
thoughts. 

"I  will  try  Lankford,"  said  he,  at  length,  half- aloud ; 
"  he  will  give  me  work,  surely." 

A  brisk  walk  of  some  ten  minutes  brought  him  to  the 
door  of  a  small  hatter's-shop  in  a  retired  street.  Behind 
the  counter  of  this  shop  stood  an  old  man,  busily  employed 
in  ironing  a  hat.  There  was  something  benevolent  in  his 
countenance  and  manner.  As  Jarvis  entered,  he  looked 
up,  and  a  shade  passed  quickly  over  his  face. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Lankford,"  said  Jarvis,  bowing, 
with  something  like  timidity  and  shame  in  his  manner. 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  to  come  here,  John  ?"  replied  the 
old  man,  sternly. 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  come,  but  not  afraid.  You  will  not 
harm  me,  I  know." 

"  Don't  trust  to  that,  John.  Did  you  not  steal,  ay,  that 
is  the  word — did  you  not  steal  from  me  the  last  time  I  em 
ployed  you  ?"  The  old  man  was  stern  and  energetic  in 
his  manner. 

"1  was  so  wicked  as  to  take  a  couple  of  skins,  Mr. 
Lankford,  but  I  did  very  wrong,  and  am  willing  to  repay 
you  for  them,  if  you  will  give  me  work.  I  was  in  liquor 


THE     TEMPERANCE     PLEDGE.  63 

when  I  did  it,  and,  when  in  liquor,  I  have  no  distinct 
consciousness  of  the  evil  of  any  action." 

"  Give  you  work,  indeed  !  0,  no !  John  ;  I  cannot  give 
you  another  chance  to  rob  me." 

"  But  I  will  not  get  drunk  any  more.  And  you  know, 
Mr.  Lankford,  that  while  I  wras  a  sober  man,  and  worked 
for  you,  I  never  wronged  you  out  of  a  sixpence  worth." 

"  Won't  get  drunk  any  more  !  Ah  !  John,  I  have  lived 
too  long  in  the  world,  and  have  seen  too  much,  to  heed 
such  promises." 

"  But  I  am  in  earnest,  Mr.  Lankford.  I  signed  the 
pledge  this  morning." 

"  You  !"  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"Yes,  /signed  it." 

"  Ah,  John,"  after  a  pause,  and  shaking  his  head  in 
credulously,  "  I  cannot  credit  your  word,  and  I  am  sorry 
for  it." 

"  If  I  have  signed  the  pledge,  and  if  I  am  really  de 
termined  to  be  a  reformed  man,  will  you  give  me  work,  Mr. 
Lankford !" 

The  old  man  thought  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said, 
half-sorrowfully — 

"  I  am  afraid  of  you,  John.  You  are  such  an  old 
offender  on  the  score  of  drunkenness,  that  I  have  no  confi 
dence  in  your  power  to  keep  the  pledge." 

"  Then  what  shall  I  do !"  the  poor  wretch  exclaimed,  in 
tones  that  made  the  heart  of  the  old  man  thrill — for  nature 
and  pathos  were  in  them.  "  Now  that  I  am  trying  in 
earnest  to  do  better,  no  one  will  give -me  a  word  of  en 
couragement,  nor  a  helping  hand.  Heaven  help  me ! — for 
I  am  forsaken  of  man." 

Mr.  Lankford  stood  thoughtful  and  irresolute  for  some 
moments.  At  length,  he  said — 

"  John,  if  you  will  bring  me  a  certificate  from  Mr.  R , 

that  you  have  signed  the  total-abstinence  pledge,  I  will 
give  you  another  trial.  But  if  you  disappoint  me  again, 
you  and  I  are  done  for  ever." 

The  countenance  of  Jarvis  brightened  up  instantly.  He 
turned  quickly  away,  without  reply,  and  hurried  off  to 

the  store  of  Mr.  R ,  the  secretary  of  the  society  he  had 

joined.  The  certificate  was,  of  course,  obtained. 

"And  you  have  joined,  sure  enough,  John,"  Mr.  Lank- 


64  THE     TEMPERANCE    PLEDGE. 

ford  said,  in  a  changed  tone,  as  he  glanced  over  the  cer 
tificate. 

"  Indeed  I  have,  Mr.  Lankford." 

"  And  you  seem  in  earnest." 

1  If  I  was  ever  in  earnest  about  any  thing  in  my  life,  I 
am  in  earnest  now." 

"Keep  to  your  pledge,  then,  John,  and  all  will  be  well. 
While  you  were  a  sober  man,  I  preferred  you  to  any 
journeyman  in  my  shop.  Keep  sober,  and  you  shall 
never  want  a  day's  work  while  I  am  in  business." 

The  poor  man  was  now  shown  his  place  in  the  shop, 
and  once  again  he  resumed  his  work,  though  under  a  far 
different  impulse  than  had,  for  years,  nerved  him  to  action. 

Two  hours  brought  his  regular  dinner-time,  when  Jarvis, 
who  began  to  feel  the  want  of  food,  returned  home,  with 
new  and  strange  feelings  about  his  heart.  One  impulse 
was  to  tell  his  wife  what  he  had  done,  and  what  he  was 
doing.  But  then  he  remembered  how  often  he  had  mocked 
her  new  springing  hopes — how  often  he  had  promised 
amendment,  and  once  even  joined  a  temperance  society, 
only  to  relapse  into  a  lower  and  more  degraded  condition. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said  to  himself,  after  debating  the  question 
in  his  mind,  as  he  walked  towards  home ;  "  I  will  not  tell 
her  now.  I  will  first  present  some  fruit  of  my  repentance. 
I  will  give  such  an  assurance  as  will  create  confidence  and 
hope." 

Mrs.  Jarvis  did  not  raise  her  eyes  to  the  face  of  her  hus 
band,  as  he  entered.  The  sight  of  that  once  loved  counte 
nance,  distorted  and  disfigured,  ever  made  her  heart  sick 
when  she  looked  upon  it.  Jarvis  seated  himself  quietly  in 
a  chair,  and  held  out  his  hands  for  his  youngest  child,  not 
over  two  years  old,  who  had  no  consciousness  of  his  father's 
degradation.  In  a  moment  the  happy  little  creature  was  on 
his  knee.  But  the  other  children  showed  no  inclination  to 
approach. 

The  frugal  meal  passed  in  silence  and  restraint.  Mrs. 
Jarvis  felt  troubled  and  oppressed — for  the  prospect  before 
her  seemed  to  grow  more  and  more  gloomy.  All  the 
morning  she  had  suffered  from  a  steady  pain  in  her  breast, 
and  from  a  lassitude  that  she  could  not  overcome.  Her 
pale,  thin,  care-worn  face,  told  a  sad  tale  of  suffering, 
privation,  confinement,  and  want  of  exercise.  What  was 


THE     TEMPERANCE     PLEDGE.  65 

to  become  of  her  children  she  knew  not.  Under  such  feel 
ings  of  hopelessness,  to  have  one  sitting  by  her  side,  who 
could  take  much  of  her  burdens  from  her,  were  he  but  to 
will  it — who  could  call  back  the  light  to  her  heart,  if  only 
true  to  his  promise,  made  in  earlier  and  happier  years — 
soured  in  some  degree  her  feelings,  and  obscured  her  per 
ceptions.  She  did  not  note  that  some  change  had  passed 
upon  him  ;  a  change  that  if  marked,  would  have  caused 
her  heart  to  leap  in  her  bosom. 

As  soon  as  Jarvis  had  risen  from  the  table,  he  took  his 
hat,  and  kissing  his  youngest  child,  the  only  one  there  who 
seemed  to  regard  him,  passed  quickly  from  the  house.  As 
the  door  closed  after  him,  his  wife  heaved  a  long  sigh,  and 
then  rising,  mechanically,  proceeded  to  clear  up  the  table. 
Of  how  many  crushed  affections  and  disappointed  hopes, 
did  that  one  deep,  tremulous  sigh,  speak ! 

Jarvis  returned  to  his  work,  and  applied  himself  steadily 
during  the  whole  afternoon.  Whenever  a  desire  for  liquor 
returned  upon  him,  he  quenched  it  in  a  copious  draught  of 
water,  and  thus  kept  himself  as  free  from  temptation  as 
possible.  At  night  he  returned,  when  the  same  troubled 
and  uneasy  silence  pervaded  the  little  family  at  the  supper- 
table.  The  meal  was  scanty,  for  Mrs.  Jarvis's  incessant 
labor  could  procure  but  a  poor  supply  of  food.  After  the 
children  had  been  put  to  bed,  Mrs.  Jarvis  sat  down,  as 
usual,  to  spend  the  evening,  tired  as  she  was,  and  much 
as  her  breast  pained  her,  in  sewing.  A  deep  sigh  heaved 
involuntarily  her  bosom  as  she  did  so.  It  caught  the  ear 
of  her  husband,  and  smote  upon  his  heart.  He  knew  that 
her  health  was  feeble,  and  that  constant  labor  fatigued  her 
excessively. 

"  I  wouldn't  sew  to-night,  Jane,"  he  said.  "  You  look 
tired.  Rest  for  one  evening." 

Mrs  Jarvis  neither  looked  up  nor  replied.  There  was 
something  in  the  tone  of  her  husband's  voice  that  stirred 
her  feelings; — something  that  softened  her  heart  towards 
him.  But  she  dared  not  trust  herself  to  speak,  nor  to  let 
her  eye  meet  his.  She  did  not  wish  to  utter  a  harsh  nor 
repulsive  word,  nor  was  she  willing  to  speak  kindly  to 
him,  for  she  did  not  feel  kindly, — and  kind  words  and 
affected  cheerfulness,  she  had  already  found  but  encour 
aged  him  in  his  evil  ways.  And  so  she  continued  to  ply 


66  THE     TEMPERANCE     PLEDGE. 

her  needle,  without  appearing  to  regard  his  presence.  Her 
husband  did  not  make  another  effort  to  induce  her  to  sus 
pend  her  labors;  for,  under  existing  circumstances,  he 
was  particularly  desirous  of  not  provoking  her  to  use 
towards  him  the  language  of  rebuke  and  censure.  After 
sitting  silent,  for,  perhaps  half  an  hour,  he  rose  from  his 
chair,  and  walked  three  or  four  times  backwards  and  for 
wards  across  the  room,  preparatory  to  going  out  to  seek  a 
coffee-house,  and  there  spend  his  evening,  as  his  wife  sup 
posed.  But  much  to  her  surprise,  he  retired  to  their 
chamber,  in  the  adjoining  room.  While  still  under  the 
expectation  of  seeing  him  return,  his  loud  breathing  caught 
her  quick  ear.  He  was  asleep  ! 

Catching  up  the  light,  as  she  arose  suddenly  to  her  feet, 
she  passed,  with  a  hasty  step,  into  the  chamber.  He  had 
undressed  himself,  was  in  bed,  and  sound  asleep.  She  held 
the  candle  close  to  his  face  ,  it  was  calmer  than  usual,  and 
somewhat  paler.  As  she  bent  over  him,  his  breath  came 
full  in  her  face.  It  was  not  loaded  with  the  disgusting 
fumes  that  had  so  often  sickened  her.  Her  heart  beat 
quicker — the  moisture  dimmed  her  eye — her  whole  frame 
trembled.  Then  looking  upwards,  she  uttered  a  single 
prayer  for  her  husband,  and,  gliding  quietly  from  the  room, 
sat  down  by  her  little  table  and  again  bent  over  her  work. 
Now  she  remembered  that  he  had  said,  with  something  un 
usual  in  his  tones — "  I  would  not  sew  to-night,  Jane  ;  you 
look  tired  ;  rest  for  one  evening" — and  her  heart  was  agi 
tated  with  a  new  hope ;  but  that  hope,  like  the  dove  from 
the  ark,  found  nothing  upon  which  to  rest,  and  trembled 
back  again  into  a  feeling  of  despondency. 

On  the  next  morning,  the  unsteady  hand  of  Jarvis,  as 
he  lifted  his  saucer  to  his  lips  at  the  breakfast-table,  made 
his  wife's  heart  sink  again  in  her  bosom.  She  had  felt  a 
hope,  almost  unconsciously.  She  remembered  that  at  sup 
per-time  his  hand  was  firm — now  it  was  unnerved.  This 
was  conclusive  to  her  mind,  that,  notwithstanding  his  ap 
pearance,  he  had  been  drinking.  But  few  words  passed 
during  the  meal,  for  neither  felt  much  inclined  to  converse. 

After  breakfast,  Jarvis  returned  to  the  shop  and  worked 
steadily  until  dinner-time,  and  then  again  until  evening. 
As  on  the  night  before,  he  did  not  go  out,  but  retired  early 
to  bed.  And  this  was  continued  all  the  week.  But  the 


THE     TEMPERANCE     PLEDGE.          67 

whole  was  a  mystery  to  his  poor  wife,  who  dared  not  even 
to  hope  for  any  real  change  for  the  better.  On  Saturday, 
towards  night,  he  laid  by  his  work,  put  on  his  coat  and  hat, 
and  went  into  the  front  shop. 

"  So  you  have  really  worked  a  week,  a  sober  man, 
John  ?"  Mr.  Lankford  said. 

"  Indeed,  I  have.  Since  last  Sunday  morning,  no  kind 
of  intoxicating  liquor  has  passed  my  lips." 

"  How  much  have  you  earned  this  week,  John  ?" 

"  Here  is  the  foreman's  account  of  my  work,  sir.  It 
comes  to  twelve  dollars." 

"  Still  a  fast  workman.  You  will  yet  recover  yourself, 
and  your  family  will  again  be  happy,  if  you  persevere." 

"  0,  sir,  they  shall  be  happy  !  I  will  persevere !" 

Another  pause  ensued,  and  then  Jarvis  said,  while  the 
color  mounted  to  his  cheek — 

"  If  you  are  willing,  Mr.  Lankford,  I  should  like  you 
to  deduct  only  one-half  of  what  I  owe  you  for  those  furs  I 
took  from  you,  from  this  week's  wages.  My  family  are  in 
want  of  a  good  many  things  ;  and  I  am  particularly  de 
sirous  of  buying  a  barrel  of  flour  to-night." 

"  Say  nothing  of  that,  John.  Let  it  be  forgotten  with 
your  past  misdeeds.  Here  are  your  wages — twelve  dol 
lars — and  if  it  gives  you  as  much  pleasure  to  receive,  as  it 
does  me  to  pay  them,  then  you  feel  no  ordinary  degree  of 
satisfaction." 

Mr.  Jarvis  received  the  large  sum  for  him  to  possess, 
and  hurried  away  to  a  grocery.  Here  he  bought,  for  six 
dollars,  a  barrel  of  flour,  and  expended  two  dollars  more  of 
his  wages  in  sugar,  coffee,  tea,  molasses,  &c.  Near  to  the 
store  was  the  market-house.  Thence  he  repaired,  and 
bought  meat  and  various  kinds  of  vegetables,  with  butter, 
&c.  These  he  carried  to  the  store,  and  gave  directions  to 
have  all  sent  home  to  him.  He  had  now  two  dollars  left 
out  of  the  twelve  he  had  earned  since  Monday  morning, 
and  with  these  in  his  pocket,  he  returned  home.  As  he 
drew  near  the  house,  his  heart  fluttered  in  anticipation  of 
the  delightful  change  that  would  pass  upon  all  beneath  its 
humble  roof.  He  had  never  in  his  life,  experienced  feel 
ings  of  such  real  joy. 

A  few  moments  brought  him  to  the  door,  and  he  went  in 
with  the  quick  step  that  had  marked  his  entrance  for  several 


68        THE     TEMPERANCE     PLEDGE. 

days.  It  was  not  quite  dark,  and  his  wife  sat  sewing  by 
the  window.  She  was  finishing  a  pair  of  gantaloons  that 
had  to  go  home  that  very  evening,  and  with  the  money  she 
was  to  get  for  them  she  expected  to  buy  the  Sunday  din 
ner.  There  was  barely  enough  food  in  the  house  for  sup 
per;  and  unless  she  received  her  pay  for  this  piece  of 
work,  she  had  no  means  of  getting  the  required  sustenance 
for  herself  and  children — or  rather,  for  her  husband,  her 
self  and  children.  The  individual  for  whom  it  was  in 
tended  was  not  a  prompt  pay-master,  and  usually  grumbled 
whenever  Mrs.  Jarvis  asked  him  for  money.  To  add  to 
the  circumstances  of  concern  and  trouble  of  mind,  she  felt 
almost  ready  to  give  up,  from  the  excessive  pain  in  her 
breast,  and  the  weakness  of  her  whole  frame.  As  her  hus 
band  came  in,  she  turned  upon  him  an  anxious  and  troubled 
countenance ;  and  then  bent  down  over  her  work  and  plied 
her  needle  hurriedly.  As  the  twilight  fell  dimly  around, 
she  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  window,  and  at  last  stood 
up,  and  leaned  close  up  to  the  panes  of  glass,  so  that  her 
hand  almost  touched  them,  in  order  to  catch  the  few  feeble 
rays  of  light  that  were  still  visible.  But  she  could  not  finish 
the  garment  upon  which  she  wrought,  by  the  light  of  day. 
A  candle  was  now  lit,  and  she  took  her  place  by  the  table, 
not  so  much  as  glancing  towards  her  husband,  who  had 
seated  himself  in  a  chair,  with  his  youngest  child  on  his 
knee.  Half  an  hour  passed  in  silence,  and  then  Mrs. 
Jarvis  rose  up,  having  taken  the  last  stitch  in  the  garment 
she  was  making,  and  passed  into  the  adjoining  chamber. 
In  a  few  minutes  she  came  out,  with  her  bonnet  and  shawl 
on,  and  the  pair  of  pantaloons  that  she  had  just  finished  on 
her  arm. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Jane  ?"  her  husband  asked,  in 
a  tone  of  surprise,  that  seemed  mingled  with  disappoint 
ment. 

"  I  am  going  to  carry  home  my  work." 

"  But  I  wouldn't  go  now,  Jane.  Wait  until  after  sup 
per." 

"  No,  John.  I  cannot  wait  until  after  supper.  The 
work  will  be  wanted.  It  should  have  been  home  two 
hours  ago." 

And  she  glided  from  the  room. 

A  walk  of  a  few  minutes  brought  her  to  the  door  of  a 


THR     TEMPERANCE     PLEDGE.          69 

tailor's-shop,  around  the  front  of  which  hung  sundry  gar 
ments  exposed  for  sale.  This  shop  she  entered,  and  pre 
sented  the  pair  of  pantaloons  to  a  man  who  stood  behind 
the  counter.  His  face  relaxed  not  a  muscle  as  he  took 
them  and  made  a  careful  examination  of  the  work. 

"  They'll  do,"  he  at  length  said,  tossing  them  aside, 
and  resuming  his  employment  of  cutting  out  a  garment. 

Poor  Mrs.  Jarvis  paused,  dreading  to  utter  her  request. 
But  necessity  conquered  the  painful  reluctance,  and  she 
said — 

"  Can  you  pay  me  for  this  pair  to-night,  Mr.  Willets  ?" 

"  No.  I've  got  more  money  to  pay  on  Monday  than  I 
know  where  to  get,  and  cannot  let  a  cent  go  out." 

"  But,  Mr.  Willets,  I " 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  of  your  reasons,  Mrs.  Jarvis. 
You  can't  have  the  money  to-night." 

Mrs.  Jarvis  moved  slowly  away,  and  had  nearly  reached 
the  door,  when  a  thought  of  her  children  caused  her  to 
pause. 

"  I  cannot  go,  Mr.  Willets,  without  the  money,"  she 
said,  suddenly  turning,  and  speaking  in  an  excited  tone. 

"  You  will  go,  I'm  thinking,  madam,"  was  the  cool 
reply. 

"  0,  sir,"  changing  her  tone,  "pay  me  what  you  owe 
me  ;  I  want  it  very  much." 

"  0,  yes.  So  you  all  say.  But  I  am  used  to  such  make- 
believes.  You  get  no  money  out  of  me  to-night,  madam. 
That's  a  settled  point.  I'm  angry  now — so  you  had  better 
go  home  at  once  ;  if  you  don't,  I'll  never  give  you  a  stitch 
of  work,  so  help " 

Mrs.  Jarvis  did  not  pause  to  hear  the  concluding  words 
of  the  sentence. 

'"  What  shall  I  do?"  was  the  almost  despairing  question 
that  she  asked  of  herself,  as  she  hurried  towards  her  home. 
On  entering  the  house  she  made  no  remark,  for  there  was 
no  one  to  whom  she  could  tell  her  troubles  and  disap 
pointment,  with  even  the  most  feeble  hope  of  a  word  of 
comfort. 

"  Does  Mr.  Jarvis  live  here?"  asked  a  rough  voice  at 
the  door. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  was  the  reply. 


70          THE     TEMPERANCE     PLEDGE. 

"  Well,  here  is  a  barrel  of  flour  and  some  groceries 
for  him." 

"  There  must  be  some  mistake,  sir." 

"  Is  not  this  Mr.  Jarvis's  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  And  number  40  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Then  this  is  the  place,  for  that  was  the  direction 
given  me." 

"Yes,  this  is  the  place — bring  them  in,"  spoke  up 
Jarvis,  in  an  animated  tone. 

The  drayman,  of  course,  obeyed.  First  he  rolled  in  the 
barrel  of  flour ;  then  came  a  number  of  packages,  evidently 
containing  groceries;  and,  finally,  one  or  two  pieces  of 
meat,  and  sundry  lots  of  vegetables. 

"How  much  is  to  pay?"  asked  Jarvis. 

"  Twenty-five  cents,  sir,"  responded  the  drayman,  bowing. 

The  twenty-five  cent  piece  was  taken  from  his  pocket 
with  quite  an  air,  and  handed  over.  Then  the  drayman 
went  out  and  that  little  /ainily  were  alone  again.  During 
the  passage  of  the  scene  just  described,  the  wife  stood 
looking  on  with  a  stupid  and  bewildered  air.  When  the 
drayman  had  departed,  she  turned  to  her  husband,  and 
said — 

"  John,  where  did  these  things  come  from  ?" 

"I  bought  them,  Jane." 

"You  bought  them?" 

"Yes,  I  bought  them." 

"  And  pray,  John,  what  did  you  buy  them  with  ?" 

"  With  the  quarter  of  a  dollar  you  gave  me  on  Monday." 

"John!" 

"  It  is  true,  Jane.  With  that  quarter  I  went  and  joined 
the  Washington  Total-Abstinence  Society,  and  then  went 
to  work  at  Mr.  Lankford's.  Here  is  the  result  of  one 
week's  work,  besides  this  silver,"  handing  her  all  that 
remained,  after  making  the  purchases. 

"  0,  John,  John,"  the  wife  exclaimed,  bursting  into 
tears,  "  do  not  again  mock  my  hopes.  I  cannot  bear 
much  more." 

"In  the  strength  of  Him,  Jane,  who  has  promised  to 
help  us  when  we  call  upon  Him,  "  I  will  not  disappoint 
the  hopes  I  now  revive,"  said  Jarvis,  slowly  and  solemnly. 


THE     TEMPERANCE     PLEDGE  73 

The  almost  heart-broken  wife  and  mother  leaned  her 
head  upon  the  shoulder  of  her  husband,  and  clung  to  his 
side  with  a  newly-revived  confidence,  that  she  felt  would 
not  be  disappointed,  while  the  tears  poured  from  her  eyes 
like  rain.  But  her  true  feelings  we  cannot  attempt  to 
describe — nor  dare  we  venture  to  sketch  further  the  scene 
we  have  introduced.  The  reader's  imagination  can  do  it 
more  justice,  and  to  him  we  leave  that  pleasing  task,  with 
only  the  remark,  that  Mrs.  Jarvis's  newly- a  wakened  joys 
and  hopes  have  not  again  been  disappointed. 


TIME,  FAITH,  ENERGY. 


"I  DON'T  see  that  I  am  so  much  better  off,"  said  Mr. 
Gordon,  a  man  who  had  recently  given  up  drinking.  "  I 
lost  my  situation  on  the  very  day  I  signed  the  pledge,  and 
have  had  no  regular  employment  since." 

"  But  you  would  have  lost  your  situation  if  you  hadn't 
signed  the  pledge,  I  presume,"  said  the  individual  to  whom 
he  was  complaining. 

"  Yes.  I  lost  it  because  I  got  drunk  and  spoiled  my 
job.  But  to  hear  some  temperance  people  talk,  one  who 
didn't  know  would  be  led  to  believe  that,  the  very  moment 
the  pledge  was  signed, -gold  could  be  picked  up  in  the 
streets.  I  must  confess  that  I  haven't  found  it  so.  Money 
is  scarcer  with  me  than  it  ever  was  ;  and  though  I  don't 
spend  a  cent  for  myself,  my  family  haven't  a  single  comfort 
more  than  they  had  before." 

"  Though  there's  no  disputing  the  fact  that  they  would 
have  many  less  comforts  if  you  hadn't  signed  the  pledge?" 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  But  I  cannot  help  feeling  dis 
couraged  at  the  way  things  go.  If  I  had  the  same  wages 
I  received  before  I  signed  the  pledge,  I  could  be  laying  up 
money.  But,  as  it  is,  it  requires  the  utmost  economy  to 
keep  from  getting  in  debt." 

"  Still,,  you  do  manage  to  keep  even?" 

"Yes." 

"  On  about  half  your  former  income?" 

"  A  little  over  half.  I  used  to  get  ten  dollars  a  week. 
Now  I  manage,  by  picking  up  odd  jobs  here  and  there,  to 
make  about  six." 

;'  Then  you  are  better  off  than  you  were  before." 
I  hardly  see  how  you  can  make  that  out." 

"  Your  family  have  enough  to  live  upon — all  they  had 
before— and  you  have  a  healthier  body,  a  calmer  mind, 
and  a  clearer  conscience.  Isn't  here  something  gained  ?" 

"  I  rather  think  there  is,"  replied  Gordon,  smiling. 
(74) 


TIME,    FAITH,    ENERGY.  75 

"  And  I  rather  think  you  are  a  good  deal  better  off  than 
you  were  before.  Isn't  your  wife  happier  ?" 

"  0  !  yes.     She's  as  cheerful  as  a  lark  all  the  day." 

"  And  doesn't  murmur  because  of  your  light  wages  ?" 

"  No,  indeed !  not  she.  I  believe  if  I  didn't  earn  more 
than  three  dollars  a  week,  and  kept  sober,  she  would  make 
it  do,  somehow  or  other,  and  keep  a  good  heart.  It's 
wonderful  how  much  she  is  changed  !" 

"And  yet  you  are  no  better  off?  Ain't  you  better  off 
.in  having  a  happy  wife  and  a  pleasant  home,  what  I  am 
sure  you  hadn't  before  ?" 

"  You  are  right  in  that.  I  certainly  had  neither  of  them 
before.  Oh !  yes.  I  am  much  better  off  all  around.  I 
only  felt  a  little  despondent,  because  I  can't  get  regular 
employment  as  I  used  to,  and  good  wages ;  for  now,  if  I 
had  these,  I  could  do  so  well." 

"  Be  patient,  friend  Gordon ;  time  will  make  all  right. 
There  are  three  words  that  every  reformed  man  should 
write  on  the  walls  of  his  chamber,  that  he  may  see  them 
every  morning.  They  are  '  Time,  Faith,  Energy.'  No 
matter  how  low  he  may  have  fallen  ;  no  matter  how  dis 
couraging  all  things  around  him  may  appear ;  let  him 
have  energy,  and  faith  in  time,  and  all  will  come  out  well  at 
last." 

Gordon  went  home,  feeling  in  better  heart  than  when  he 
met  the  temperance  friend  who  had  spoken  to  him  these 
encouraging  words. 

Henry  Gordon,  when  he  married,  had  just  commenced 
business  for  himself,  and  went  on  for  several  years  doing 
very  well.  He  laid  by  enough  money  to  purchase  himself 
a  snug  little  house,  and  was  in  a  good  way  for  accumulating 
a  comfortable  property,  when  the  habit  of  dram-drinking, 
which  he  had  indulged  for  years,  became  an  over-master 
ing  passion.  From  that  period  he  neglected  his  business, 
which  steadily  declined.  In  half  the  time  it  took  to  accu 
mulate  the  property  he  possessed,  all  disappeared — his 
business  was  broken  up,  and  he  compelled  to  work  at  his 
trade  as  a  journeyman  to  support  his  family.  From  a  third 
to  a  half  of  the  sum  he  earned  weekly,  he  spent  in  gratify 
ing  the  debasing  appetite  that  had  almost  beggared  his 
family  and  reduced  him  to  a  state  of  degradation  little 
above  that  of  the  brute.  The  balance  was  given  to  his 


76  TIME,    FAITH,     ENERGY. 

sad-hearted  wife,  to  get  food  for  the  hungry,  half-clothed 
children. 

Nor  was  this  all.  Debts  were  contracted  which  Gordon 
was  unable  to  pay.  One  or  two  of  his  creditors,  more  ex 
acting  than  the  rest,  seized  upon  his  furniture  and  sold  it 
to  satisfy  their  claims,  leaving  to  the  distressed  family  only 
the  few  articles  exempt  by  law. 

Things  had  reached  this  low  condition,  when  Gordon 
came  home  from  the  shop,  one  day,  some  hours  earlier  than 
usual.  Surprised  at  seeing  him,  his  wife  said — 

"  What's  the  matter,  Henry  ?     Are  you  sick  ?" 

"  No  !"  he  replied,  sullenly,  "  I'm  discharged." 

"  Discharged !    For  what,  Henry  ?" 

"  For  spoiling  a  job." 

"  How  did  that  happen  ?"  Mrs.  Gordon  spoke  kindly, 
although  she  felt  anxious  and  distressed. 

"How  has  all  my  trouble  happened?"  asked  Gordon, 
with  unusual  bitterness  of  tone.  "  I  took  a  glass  too 
much,  and — and — " 

"  It  made  you  spoil  your  job,"  said  his  wife,  her  voice 
still  kind. 

"  Yes.  Curse  the  day  I  ever  saw  a  drop  of  liquor !  It 
has  been  the  cause  of  all  my  misfortunes." 

"  Why  not  abandon  its  use  at  once  and  for  ever,  Henry  ?" 

"  That  is  not  so  easily  done." 

"  Hundreds  have  done  it,  and  are  doing  it  daily,  and  so 
may  you.  Only  make  the  resolution,  Henry.  Only  deter 
mine  to  break  these  fetters,  and  you  are  free.  Let  the 
time  past,  wherein  you  have  wrought  folly,  and  your  family 
suffered  more  than  words  can  express,  suffice.  Only  will 
it,  and  there  will  be  a  bright  future  for  all  of  us." 

Tears  came  into  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Gordon  while  she 
made  this  appeal,  although  she  strove  hard  to  appear  calm. 
Her  husband  felt  a  better  spirit  awaking  within  him.  There 
was  a  brief  struggle  between  appetite  and  the  good  resolu 
tion  that  was  forming  in  his  mind,  and  then  the  latter  con 
quered. 

"  I  will  be  free  !"  he  said,  turning  towards  the  door 
through  which  he  had  a  little  while  before  entered,  and 
hurriedly  leaving  the  house. 

The  hour  that  passed  from  the  time  her  husband  went 
out  until  he  returned,  was  one  of  most  anxious  suspense  to 


TIME,     FAITH;     ENERGY.  77 

Mrs.  Gordon.  Her  hand  trembled  so  that  she  could  not 
hold  her  needle,  and  was  obliged  to  lay  aside  the  sewing 
upon  which  she  was  engaged,  and  go  about  some  house 
hold  employments. 

"  Mary,  I  have  signed  the  pledge,  if  that  will  do  any 
good,"  said  Gordon,  opening  the  door  and  coming  in  upon 
his  wife  with  his  pledge  in  his  hand.  "  There,"  and  he 
unrolled  the  paper  and  pointed  to  his  name  ;  "  there  is  my 
signature,  and  here  is  the  document." 

He  did  not  speak  very  cheerfully ;  but  his  wife's  face 
was  lit  up  with  a  sudden  brightness,  followed  by  a  gush  of 
tears. 

"  Do  any  good  !"  she  replied,  leaning  her  head  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  grasping  one  of  his  hands  tightly  in  both  of 
hers.  "  It  will  do  all  good !" 

"  But  I  have  no  work,  Mary.  I  was  discharged  to-day^ 
and  it  is  the  only  shop  in  town.  What  are  we  to  do  ?" 

"  Mr.  Evenly  will  take  you  back,  now  that  you  have 
signed  the  pledge." 

"  Perhaps  he  will !"  Gordon  spoke  more  cheerfully, 
"  I  will  go  and  see  him  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Gordon  prepared  her  husband  a  strong  cup  of  coffee, 
and  baked  some  nice  hot  cakes  for  his  supper.  She  combed 
her  hair,  and  made  herself  as  tidy  as  possible.  The  chil 
dren,  too,  were  much  improved  in  their  looks  by  a  little 
attention,  which  their  mother  felt  encouraged  to  give. 
There  was  an  air  of  comfort  about  the  ill-furnished  dwell 
ing  of  Henry  Gordon  that  it  had  not  known  for  a  long 
time,  and  he  felt  it. 

On  the  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  Gordon  went  back 
to  the  shop  from  which  he  had  been  discharged  only  the 
day  previous.  Evenly,  the  owner  of  it,  was  a  rough,  un 
feeling  man,  and  had  kept  Gordon  on,  month  after  month, 
because  he  could  not  well  do  without  him.  But,  on  the 
very  day  he  discharged  him,  a  man  from  another  town  had 
applied  for  work,  and  the  spoiled  job  was  made  an  excuse 
for  discharging  a  journeyman,  whose  habits  of  intoxication 
had  always  been  offensive  to  the  master-workman. 

When  Gordon  entered  the  shop  for  the  purpose  of  ask 
ing  to  be  taken  back,  he  met  Evenly  near  the  door,  who 
said  to  him,  in  a  rough  manner — 

"  And  what  do  you  want,  pray  ?" 
10 


78  TIME,     FAITH,     ENERGY. 

"  I  want  you  to  take  me  back  again,"  replied  Gordon. 
"  I  have  signed  the  pledge,  and  intend  leading  a  sober  life 
hereafter." 

"  The  devil  you  have  !" 

"  Yes  sir.  I  signed  it  yesterday,  after  you  discharged 
me." 

"  How  long  do  you  expect  to  keep  it  ?"  asked  Evenly, 
with  a  sneer.  "Long  enough  to  reach  the  next  grog 
shop  ?" 

"  I  have  taken  the  pledge  for  life,  I  trust,"  returned  the 
workman,  seriously.  He  was  hurt  at  the  contemptuous 
manner  of  his  old  employer,  but  his  dependent  condition 
made  him  conceal  his  feelings.  "  You  will  have  no  more 
trouble  with  me." 

"  No,  I  am  aware  of  that.  I  will  have  no  more  trouble 
with  you,  for  I  never  intend  to  let  you  come  ten  feet  inside 
the  front  door  of  my  shop." 

"  But  I  have  reformed  my  bad  habit,  Mr.  Evenly.  I 
will  give  you  no  more  trouble  with  my  drinking,"  said  the 
poor  man,  alarmed  at  this  language. 

"  It's  no  use  for  you  to  talk  to  me,  Gordon,"  replied 
Evenly,  in  a  rough  manner.  "  I've  long  wanted  to  get  rid 
of  you,  and  I  have  finally  succeeded.  Your  place  is  filled. 
So  there  is  no  more  to  say  on  that  subject.  Good  morn 
ing." 

And  the  man  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  Gordon  standing 
half  stupified  at  what  he  had  heard. 

"  Rum's  done  the  business  for  you  at  last,  my  lark !  I 
told  you  it  would  come  to  this!"  said  an  old  fellow  work* 
man,  who  heard  what  passed  between  Gordon  and  the  em 
ployer.  He  spoke  in  a  light,  insulting  voice. 

Without  replying,  the  unhappy  man  left  the  shop,  feeling 
more  wretched  than  he  had  ever  felt  in  his  life. 

"  And  thus  I  am  met  at  my  first  effort  to  reform !"  he 
murmured,  bitterly. 

"  Hallo,  Gordon  !  Where  are  you  going?"  cried  a  voice 
as  these  words  fell  from  his  lips. 

He  looked  up  and  found  himself  opposite  to  the  door  of 
one  of  his  old  haunts.  It  was  the  keeper  of  it  who  had 
called  him. 

"  Come  !  Walk  in  and  let  us  see  your  pleasant  face  this 
morning.  Where  were  you  last  night  ?  My  company  all 


TIME,     FAITH,     ENERGY.  79 

complained  about  your  absence.  We  were  as  dull  as  a 
funeral." 

"  Curse  you  and  your  company  too !"  ejaculated  Gordon 
between  his  teeth,  and  moved  on,  letting  his  eyes  fall  again 
to  the  pavement. 

"  Hey-day !     What's  the  matter  ?" 

But  Gordon  did  not  stop  to  bandy  words  with  one  of 
the  men  who  had  helped  to  ruin  him. 

"  It's  all  over  with  us,  Mary.  Evenly's  got  a  man  in  my 
place,"  said  Gordon,  as  he  entered  his  house  and  threw 
himself  despairingly  into  a  chair. 

"  But  won't  he  give  you  work,  too  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Gor 
don,  in  a  husky  voice. 

"  No  !  He  insulted  me,  and  said  I  should  never  come 
ten  feet  inside  of  his  shop." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  that  you  had  signed  the  pledge  ?" 

"  Yes.  But  it  was  no  use.  He  did  not  seem  to  care 
for  me  any  more  than  he  did  for  a  dog." 

The  poor  man's  distress  was  so  great  that  he  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands,  and  sat  swinging  his  body  to  and 
fro,  and  uttering  half-suppressed  moans. 

"  What  are  we  to  do,  Mary  ?  There  is  no  other  shop  in 
town,"  he  said,  looking  up,  after  growing  a  little  calm. 
"  Doesn't  it  seem  hard,  just  as  I  am  trying  to  do  right  ?" 

"  Don't  despair,  Henry.  Let  us  trust  in  Providence. 
It  is  only  a  dark  moment ;  yet,  dark  as  it  is,  it  is  brighter 
to  me  than  any  period  has  been  for  years.  A  clear  head 
and  ready  hands  will  not  go  long  unemployed.  I  do  not 
despond,  dear  husband,  neither  should  you.  Keep  fast  an 
chored  to  your  pledge,  and  we  will  outride  the  storm." 

"  But  we  shall  starve,  Mary.    We  cannot  live  upon  air." 

"  No,"  replied  Mrs.  Gordon ;  "  but  we  can  live  upon 
half  what  you  have  been  earning  at  your  trade,  and  quite 
as  comfortably  as  we  have  been  living.  And  it  will  be  an 
extreme  case,  I  think,  if  you  can't  get  employment  at  five 
dollars  a  week,  doing  something  or  other.  Don't  you  ?" 

"  It  appears  so.  Certainly  I  ought  to  be  able  to  earn 
five  dollars  a  week,  if  it  is  at  sawing  wood.  I'll  do  that — 
I'll  do  any  thing." 

"  Then  we  needn't  be  alarmed.  I'll  try  and  get  some 
sewing  at  any  rate,  to  help  out.  So  brighten  up,  Henry. 
All  will  be  well.  It  will  take  a  little  time  to  get  thii  gs 


80  TIME,    FAITH,    ENERGY. 

going  right  again ;  but  time  and  industry  will  do  all  for  us 
that  we  could  ask." 

Thus  encouraged,  Gordon  started  out  to  see  if  he  could 
find  something  to  do.  It  was  a  new  thing  for  him  to  go  in 
search  of  work ;  and  rather  hard,  he  felt,  to  be  obliged  al 
most  to  beg  for  it.  Where  to  go,  or  to  whom  to  apply,  he 
did  not  know.  After  wandering  about  for  several  hours, 
and  making  several  applications  at  out  of  the  way  places 
with  no  success,  he  turned  his  steps  homeward,  feeling 
utterly  cast  down.  In  this  state,  he  was  assailed  by  the 
temptation  to  drown  all  his  trouble  in  the  cup  of  confusion, 
and  nearly  drawn  aside ;  but  a  thought  of  his  wife,  and  the 
bright  hope  that  had  sprung  up  in  her  heart  in  the  midst  of 
darkness,  held  him  back. 

"  It's  no  use  to  try,  Mary,"  he  said,  despondingly,  as 
he  entered  his  poorly-furnished  abode,  and  found  his  wife 
busy  with  her  needle.  "  I  can't  get  any  work." 

"  I  have  been  more  successful  than  you  have,  Henry," 
Mrs.  Gordon  returned,  speaking  cheerfully.  "  I  went  to 
see  if  Mrs.  Hewitt  hadn't  some  sewing  to  give  out,  and  she 
gave  me  a  dozen  shirts  to  make.  So  don't  be  discouraged. 
You  can  afford  to  wait  for  work  even  for  two  or  three 
weeks,  if  it  doesn't  come  sooner.  Let  us  be  thankful  for 
what  we  have  to-day,  and  trust  in  God  for  to-morrow.  De 
pend  upon  it,  we  shall  not  want.  Providence  never  for 
sakes  the  man  who  is  trying  to  do  right." 

Thus  Mrs.  Gordon  strove  to  keep  up  the  spirits  of  her 
husband.  After  dinner,  he  went  out  again  and  called  to 
see  a  well-known  temperance  man.  After  relating  to  him 
what  he  had  done,  and  how  unhappily  he  was  situated  in 
regard  to  work,  the  man  said — 

"  It  won't  do  to  be  idle,  Gordon  ;  that's  clear.  An  idle 
man  is  tempted  ten  times  to  another's  once.  You  will 
never  be  able  to  keep  the  pledge  unless  you  get  something 
to  do.  We  must  assist  you  in  this  matter.  What  can  you 
do  besides  your  trade  ?" 

"  I  have  little  skill  beyond  my  regular  calling;  but  then, 
I  have  health,  strength,  and  willingness;  and  I  think 
these  might  be  made  useful  in  something." 

"  So  do  I.  Now  to  start  with,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do. 
If  you  will  come  and  open  my  store  for  me  every  morning, 
make  the  fire  and  sweep  out,  and  come  and  stay  an  hour  for 


TIME,     FAITH,     ENERGY.  81 

me  every  day  while  I  go  to  dinner,  I  will  give  you  three 
dollars  a  week.  Two  hours  a  day  is  all  your  time  I  shall 
want." 

"  Thank  you  from  my  heart!  Of  course  I  accept  your 
offer.  So  far  so  good,''  said  Gordon,  brightening  up. 

"  Very  well.  You  may  begin  with  to-morrow  morning. 
No  doubt  you  can  make  an  equal  sum  by  acting  as  a  light 
porter  for  the  various  stores  about.  I  can  throw  a  little  in 
your  way;  and  I  will  speak  to  my  neighbors  to  do  the 
sam^e." 

There  was  not  a  happier  home  in  the  whole  town  than 
was  the  home  of  Henry  Gordon  that  night,  poor  as  it  was. 

"  I  knew  it  would  all  come  out  right,"  said  Mrs.  Gordon. 
"  I  knew  a  better  day  was  coming.  We  can  live  quite 
comfortably  upon  five  or  six  dollars  a  week,  and  be  happier 
than  we  have  been  for  years." 

When  Gordon  thought  of  the  past,  he  did  not  wonder 
that  tears  fell  over  the  face  of  his  wife,  even  while  her  lips 
and  eyes  were  bright  with  smiles. 

As  the  friend  had  supposed,  Gordon  was  employed  to  do 
many  errands  by  the  storekeepers  in  the  neighborhood. 
Some  weeks  he  made  five  dollars  and  sometimes  six  or 
seven.  This  went  on  for  a  few  months,  when  he  began  to 
feel  discouraged.  The  recollection  of  other  and  brighter 
days  returned  frequently  to  his  mind,  and  he  began  ardently 
to  desire  an  improved  external  condition,  as  well  for  his 
wife  and  children  as  for  himself.  He  wished  to  restore 
what  had  been  lost ;  but  saw  no  immediate  prospect  of 
being  able  to  do  so.  Six  dollars  a  week  was  the  average 
of  his  earnings,  and  it  took  all  this,  besides  what  little  his 
wife  earned,  to  make  things  tolerably  comfortable  at  home. 

Gordon  was  in  a  more  desponding  mood  than  usual, 
when  he  indulged  in  the  complaint  with  which  our  story 
opens.  What  was  said  to  him  changed  the  tone  of  his 
feelings,  and  inspired  him  with  a  spirit  of  cheerfulness  and 
hope. 

"  Time,  Faith,  Energy !"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  walked 
with  a  more  elastic  step.  "  Yes,  these  must  bring  out  all 
right  m  the  end.  I  will  not  be  so  weak  as  to  despond.  All 
is  much  improved  as  it  is.  We  are  happier  and  better. 
Time,  Faith,  Energy!  I  will  trust  in  these." 

When  Gordon  opened  the  door  of  his  humble  abode,  he 


82  TIME,     FAITH,     ENERGY. 

found  a  lad  waiting  to  see  him,  who  arose,  and  presenting 
a  small  piece  of  paper,  said — 

"  Mr.  Blake  wishes  to  know  when  you  can  settle  this?" 

Mr.  Blake  was  a  grocer,  to  whom  ten  dollars  had  been 
owing  for  a  year.  He  had  dunned  the  poor  drunkard  for 
the  money  until  he  got  tired  of  so  profitless  a  business,  and 
gave  up  the  account  for  lost.  By  some  means,  it  had 
recently  come  to  his  ears  that  Gordon  had  signed  the 
pledge. 

"  Some  chance  for  me  yet,"  he  said,  and  immediately 
had  the  bill  made  out  anew,  and  sent  in ;  not  thinking  or 
caring  whether  it  might  not  be  premature  for  him  to  do  so, 
and  have  the  effect  to  discourage  the  poor  man  and  drive 
him  back  to  his  old  habits.  What  he  wanted  was  his 
money.  It  was  his  due ;  and  he  meant  to  have  it  if  he 
could  get  it. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Blake  that  I  will  pay  him  as  soon  as  possible. 
At  present  it  is  out  of  my  power,"  said  Gordon,  in  answer 
to  the  demand. 

The  lad,  in  the  spirit  of  his  master,  turned  away  with  a 
sulky  air,  and  left  the  house. 

Poor  Gordon's  feelings  went  down  to  zero  in  a  moment. 

"  It's  hopeless,  Mary !  I  see  it  all  as  plain  as  day,"  he 
said.  "  The  moment  I  get  upon  my  feet,  there  will  be  a 
dozen  to  knock  me  down.  While  I  was  a  drunkard,  no 
one  thought  of  dunning  me  for  money ;  but  now  that  I  am 
trying  to  do  right,  every  one  to  whom  I  am  indebted  a 
dollar  will  come  pouncing  down  upon  me." 

"  It's  a  just  debt,  Henry,  you  know,  and  we  ought  to 
pay  it." 

"  I  don't  dispute  that.     But  we  can't  pay  it  now." 

"  Then  Blake  can't  get  it  now ;  so  there  the  matter  will 
have  to  rest.  A  little  dunning  won't  kill  us.  We  have 
had  harder  trials  than  that  to  bear.  So  don't  get  dis 
couraged  so  easily." 

The  words  "  Time,  Faith,  Energy !"  came  into  the  mind 
of  Gordon  and  rebuked  him. 

"  There  is  sense  in  what  you  say,  Mary,"  he  replied. 
"  I  know  I  am  too  easily  discouraged.  We  owe  Blake, 
that  is  clear ;  and  I  suppose  he  is  right  in  trying  to  get  his 
money.  We  can't  pay  him  now ;  and  therefore  he  can't 
get  it  now,  do  what  he  will.  So  we  will  be  no  worse  for 


TIME,    FAITH,    ENERGY.  83 

his  dunning,  if  he  duns  every  day.  But  I  hate  so  to  be 
asked  for  money." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  might  be  done,"  said  Mrs.  Gordon. 

"  Well  ?"  inquired  the  husband. 

"  Mr.  Blake  has  a  large  family,  and  no  doubt  his  wife 
gives  out  a  good  deal  of  sewing.  I  could  work  it  out." 

Gordon  thought  a  few  moments,  and  then  said — 

"Or,  better  than  that;  perhaps  Blake  would  let  me 
work  it  out  in  his  store.  I  have  a  good  deal  of  time  on 
my  hands  unemployed." 

"  Yes,  that  would  be  better,"  replied  Mrs.  Gordon ; 
"  for  I  have  as  much  sewing  as  I  can  do,  and  get  paid 
for  it  all." 

This  thought  brightened  the  spirits  of  Gordon.  As  soon 
as  he  had  eaten  his  dinner  he  started  for  the  store  of  Mr. 
Blake. 

"  I've  come  to  talk  to  you  about  that  bill  of  mine,"  said 
Mr.  Gordon. 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ?"  returned  the  grocer. 

"  I  wish  to  pay  it,  but  have  not  the  present  ability.  I 
lost  my  situation  on  the  very  day  I  signed  the  pledge,  and 
have  had  no  regular  employment  since.  So  far,  I  have  only 
been  able  to  pick  up  five  or  six  dollars  a  week,  and  it  takes 
all  that  to  live  upon.  But  I  have  time  to  spare,  Mr.  Blake, 
if  I  have  no  money ;  and  if  I  can  pay  you  in  labor,  I  will 
be  glad  to  do  so." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  could  ask  more  than  that,"  replied 
the  grocer.  "If  I  did,  I  would  be  unreasonable.  Let  me 
see  :  I  reckon  I  could  find  a  day's  work  for  you  about  the 
store  at  least  once  a  week,  for  which  I  would  allow  you  a 
credit  of  one  dollar  and  a  quarter.  How  would  that  do?" 

"  It  would  be  exactly  what  I  would  like.  I  can  spare 
you  a  day  easily.  And  it  is  much  better  to  work  out  an 
old  debt  than  to  be  idle." 

"  Very  well,  Gordon.  Come  to-morrow  and  work  for 
me,  and  I  will  pass  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  to  your  account. 
I  like  this.  It  shows  you  are  an  honest  man.  Never  fear 
but  what  you'll  get  along." 

The  approving  words  of  the  grocer  encouraged  Gordon 
very  much.  On  the  next  day  he  went  as  he  had  agreed 
and  worked  for  Mr.  Blake.  When  he  was  about  leaving 
the  store  at  night,  Blake  called  to  him  and  said — 


84  TIME,     FAITH,     ENERGY. 

"  Here,  Gordon,  stop  a  moment.  I  want  you  to  put  up 
a  pound  of  this  white  crushed  sugar,  and  a  quarter  of  young 
hyson  tea." 

Gordon  did  as  he  was  directed.  Blake  took  the  two 
packages  from  the  counter,  and  handing  them  to  Gordon, 
said — 

"  Take  them  to  your  wife  with  my  compliments,  and  tell 
her  that  I  wish  her  joy  of  an  honest  husband." 

Gordon  took  the  unexpected  favor,  and  without  speaking, 
turned  hastily  from  the  grocer  and  walked  away. 

«  Behind  that  frowning  Providence 
He  hid  a  smiling  face," 

said  Mrs.  Gordon,  with  tearful  eyes,  when  her  husband 
presented  her  the  sugar  and  tea,  and  repeated  what  the 
grocer  had  said. 

"  Yes.  It  was  a  blessing  sent  to  us  in  disguise,"  re 
turned  Gordon.  "  How  little  do  we  know  of  the  good  or 
ill  that  lies  in  our  immediate  future !" 

"  Do  not  say  ill,  dear  husband — only  seeming  ill ;  if  we 
think  right  and  do  right.  When  God  makes  our  future,  all 
is  good  ;  the  ill  is  of  our  own  procuring." 

"  Right,  Mary.  I  see  that  truth  as  clear  as  if  a  sunbeam 
shone  upon  it." 

"Time,  Faith,  Energy!"  murmured  Gordon  to  himself, 
as  he  lay  awake  that  night,  thinking  of  the  future.  Before 
losing  himself  in  sleep,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to 
another  creditor  for  a  small  amount,  and  see  if  he  could  not 
make  a  similar  arrangement  with  him  to  the  one  entered  into 
with  the  grocer.  The  man  demurred  a  little,  and  then  said 
he  would  take  time  to  think  about  it.  When  Gordon  called 
again,  he  declined  the  proposition,  and  said  he  had  sold 
his  goods  for  money,  not  for  work. 

"  But  I  have  no  money,"  replied  Gordon. 

"  I'll  wait  awhile  and  see,"  returned  the  man,  in  a  way 
and  with  a  significance  that  fretted  the  mind  of  Gordon. 

"  He'll  wait  until  he  sees  me  getting  a  little  ahead,  and 
then  pounce  down  upon  me  like  a  hawk  upon  his  prey." 

Over  this  idea  the  reformed  man  worried  himself,  and 
went  home  to  his  wife  unhappy  and  dispirited. 

"  I  owe  at  least  a  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred  dol 
lars,"  he  said  ;  "  and  there  is  no  hope  of  inducing  all  of 


TIME,     FAITH,     ENERGY.  85 

those  to  whom  money  is  due  to  wait  until  we  can  pay  them 
with  comfort  to  ourselves.  I  shall  be  tormented  to  death, 
I  see  that  plain  enough." 

"  Don't  you  look  at  the  dark  side,  Henry  ?"  replied  his 
wife  to  this.  "  I  think  you  do.  You  owe  some  eight  or 
ten  persons,  and  one  of  them  has  asked  you  for  what  was 
due.  You  offered  to  work  out  the  debt,  and  he  accepted 
your  offer.  To  another  who  has  not  asked  you,  you  go 
and  make  the  same  offer,  which  he  declines,  preferring  to 
wait  for  the  money.  There  is  nothing  so  really  discouraging 
in  all  thisj  I  am  sure.  If  he  prefers  waiting,  let  him  wait. 
No  doubt  it  will  be  the  same  to  us  in  the  end.  As  to  our 
getting  much  ahead  or  many  comforts  around  us  until  our 
debts  are  settled  off,  we  might  as  well  not  think  of  that. 
We  will  feel  better  to  pay  what  we  owe  as  fast  as  we  earn 
it ;  and,  more  than  that,  it  will  put  the  temptation  to  dis 
tress  us  in  nobody's  way.  If  one  man  won't  let  you  work 
out  your  debt,  why  another  will.  I've  no  doubt  that  two- 
thirds  of  your  creditors  will  be  glad  to  avail  themselves  of 
the  offer." 

Thus  re-assured,  Gordon  felt  better.  On  the  next  day 
he  tried  a  third  party  to  whom  he  owed  fifteen  dollars. 
This  man  happened  to  keep  a  retail  grocery  and  liquor  store. 
That  is,  he  had  a  bar  at  one  counter,  and  sold  groceries 
at  the  other.  Two-thirds  of  the  debt  was  for  liquor. 

"  I  want  to  wipe  off  that  old  score  of  mine,  if  I  can,  Mr. 
King,"  said  Gordon,  as  he  met  the  storekeeper  at  his  own 
door. 

"  That's  clever,"  replied  Mr.  King.  "  Walk  in.  What 
will  you  take  ?  Some  brandy  ?" 

And  Mr.  King  stepped  behind  the  counter  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  a  decanter. 

"  Nothing  at  all,  I  thank  you,"  replied  Gordon  quickly. 

"  Why  how's  that?    Have  you  sworn  off?" 

"  Yes.     I've  joined  the  temperance  society." 

The  storekeeper  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  didn't  expect  that  of  you,  Gordon.  I  thought  you 
were  too  fond  of  a  little  creature  comfort." 

"  I  ruined  myself  and  beggared  my  family  by  drink,  if 
that  is  what  you  mean  by  creature  comfort.  Poor  comfort 
it  was  for  my  wife  and  children,  to  say  nothing  of  my  own 
case,  which  was,  Heaven  knows,  bad  enough.  But  I 

11 


86  TIME,     FAITH,     ENERGY. 

have  come  to  talk  to  you  about  paying  off  that  old  score. 
Now  that  I've  given  up  drinking,  I  want  to  try  and  be 
honest  if  I  can." 

"  That's  right.  I  like  to  see  a  man,  when  he  sets  out 
to  be  decent,  go  the  whole  figure.  Have  you  got  the 
money  ?" 

"  No.  I  wish  I  had.  I  have  no  money  and  not  half 
work  ;  but  I  have  time  on  my  hands,  Mr.  King." 

"  Time  ?  That  is  what  some  people  call  money.  You 
want  to  pay  me  in  time,  instead  of  money,  I  presume  ? 
Rather  rich,  that,  Gordon !  But  time  don't  pass  current, 
like  money,  in  these  diggins,  my  friend.  There  are  a 
plenty  who  come  here  and  throw  it  away  for  nothing.  I 
can  get  more  than  I  want." 

"I  have  no  wish  to  throw  my  time  away,  nor  to  pass  it 
upon  you  for  money,  Mr.  King.  What  I  want  is,  to  ren 
der  you  some  service — in  other  words,  to  work  for  you,  if 
you  can  give  me  something  to  do.  I  have  time  on  my 
hands  unemployed,  and  I  wish  to  turn  it  to  some  good 
account." 

"  0,  yes.  I  understand  now.  Very  well,  Gordon ;  I 
rather  think  I  can  meet  your  views.  Yesterday  my  bar 
keeper  was  sent  to  prison  for  getting  into  a  scrape  while 
drunk,  and  I  want  his  place  supplied  until  he  gets  out. 
Come  and  tend  bar  for  me  a  couple  of  weeks,  and  I  will 
give  you  a  receipt  in  full  of  all  demands." 

Gordon  shook  his  head  and  looked  grave. 

"  What's  the  matter?     Won't  you  do  it  ?" 

"  No,  sir.     I  can't  do  that." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Because  I  have  sworn  neither  to  taste,  touch,  nor 
handle  the  accursed  thing.  Neither  to  drink  it  myself,  nor 
put  it  to  the  lips  of  another.  No,  no,  Mr.  King,  I  can't  do 
that.  But  I  will  sell  your  groceries  for  you  three  days  in 
the  week,  for  four  weeks.  Part  of  my  time  is  already 
regularly  engaged. " 

"  Go  off  about  your  business !  "  said  the  store-keeper,  his 
face  red  with  anger  at  the  language  of  the  reformed  man, 
which  he  was  pleased  to  consider  highly  insulting.  "  I'll 
s,ee  to  collecting  that  bill  in  a  different  way  from  that." 

By  this  time  Gordon  was  learning  not  to  be  frightened  and 
discouraged  at  every  thing.  His  wife  had  so  often  showed 


TIME,    FAITH,    ENERGY.  87 

him  its  folly,  that  he  felt  ashamed  to  go  to  her  again  in  a 
desponding  mood,  and  therefore  cheered  himself  up  before 
going  home. 

In  other  quarters  he  found  rather  better  success.  Not 
all  of  those  he  owed  were  of  the  stamp  of  the  two  to  whom 
application  had  last  been  made.  In  less  than  six  months 
he  had  worked  out  nearly  a  hundred  dollars  of  what  he 
owed,  and  had  regular  employment  that  brought  him  in 
six  dollars  every  week,  besides  earning,  by  odd  jobs  and 
light  porterage,  from  two  to  three  dollars.  His  wife  rarely 
let  a  week  go  without  producing  her  one  or  two  dollars  by 
needle-work.  Little  comforts  gradually  crept  in,  notwith 
standing  all  their  debts  were  not  yet  paid  off.  This  was 
inevitable. 

By  the  end  of  twelve  months  Gordon  found  himself  clear 
of  debt,  and  in  a  good  situation  in  a  store  at  five  hundred 
dollars  a  year. 

"  So  much  for  '  Time,  Faith,  Energy,'  "  he  said  to  him 
self,  as  he  walked  backwards  and  forwards,  in  his  com 
fortable  little  home,  one  evening,  thinking  of  the  incidents 
of  the  year,  and  the  results  that  had  followed.  "I  would 
not  have  believed  it.  Scarcely  a  twelvemonth  has  passed, 
and  here  am  I,  a  sober  man  and  out  of  debt." 

"  Though  still  very  far  from  the  advanced  position  in  the 
world  you  held  a  few  years  ago,  and  to  which  you  can 
never  more  attain,"  said  a  desponding  voice  within  him. 
"  A  man  never  has  but  one  chance  for  attaining  ease  and 
competence  in  this  life.  If  he  neglects  that,  he  need  not 
waste  his  time  in  any  useless  struggles." 

"  Time,  Faith,  Energy  !"  spoke  out  another  voice.  "  If 
one  year  has  done  so  much  for  you,  what  will  not  five,  ten, 
or  twenty  years  do  ?  Redouble  your  energies,  have  con 
fidence  in  the  future,  and  time  will  make  all  right." 

"  I  will  have  faith  in  time ;  I  will  have  energy !"  re 
sponded  the  man  in  Gordon,  speaking  aloud. 

Fron»  that  time  Gordon  and  his  wife  lived  with  even 
stricter  economy  than  before,  in  order  to  lay  by  a  little 
money  with  which  he  could,  at  some  future  time,  re-com 
mence  his  own  business,  which  was  profitable.  There  was 
still  only  a  single  shop  in  town,  and  that  was  the  one  owned 
by  his  old  employer,  who  had,  in  fact,  built  himself  up  on 


88  TIME,    FAITH,     ENERGY. 

his  downfall,  when  he  took  to  drinking  and  neglecting  his 
business.  On  less  than  a  thousand  dollars  Gordon  did  not 
think  of  commencing  business.  Less  than  that  he  knew 
would  make  the  effort  a  doubtful  one.  This  amount  he 
expected  to  save  in  about  five  years. 

Two  years  of  this  time  had  elapsed,  and  Gordon  had 
four  hundred  dollars  invested  and  bearing  interest.  He 
still  held  his  situation  at  five  hundred  dollars  per  annum. 
The  only  shop  yet  established  in  the  town  for  doing  the 
work  for  which  he  was  qualified  both  as  a  journeyman  and 
master  workman,  was  that  owned  and  still  carried  on  by 
his  old  employer,  who  had  made  a  good  deal  of  money ; 
but  who  had,  of  late,  fallen  into  habits  of  dissipation  and 
neglected  his  business. 

One  evening,  while  Gordon  was  reading  at  home  in  his 
comfortable  little  sitting-room,  with  his  wife  beside  him 
engaged  with  her  needle,  and  both  feeling  very  contented, 
there  was  a  rap  at  the  door.  On  opening  it  Gordon  re 
cognized  Mr.  Evenly,  and  politely  invited  him  to  come  in. 
After  being  seated,  his  old  employer,  who  showed  too 
plainly  the  debasing  signs  of  frequent  intoxication,  said — 

"Gordon,  what  are  you  doing  now?" 

The  reformed  man  stated  the  nature  of  his  occupation. 

"  What  salary  do  you  receive?"  asked  Evenly. 

"  Five  hundred  dollars  a  year." 

".Do  you  like  your  present  employment?" 

"  Yes,  very  well.  It  is  lighter  than  my  old  business, 
and  much  cleaner." 

"  Would  you  be  willing  to  come  to  work  for  me  again?" 
further  inquired  Evenly. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  would.  My  present  situation  is 
permanent,  my  employer  a  very  pleasant  man,  and  my 
work  easy." 

"Three  things  that  are  very  desirable,  certainly.  But 
I'll  tell  you  what  I  want,  and  what  I  will  give  you.  Per 
haps  we  can  make  a  bargain.  There  is  no  man  in  town 
who  understands  our  business  better  than  you  do.  That  I 
am  free  to  admit.  Heretofore  I  have  been  my  own  mana 
ger  ;  but  I  am  satisfied  that  it  will  be  for  my  interest  to 
have  a  competent  foreman  in  my  establishment.  If  I  can 
find  one  to  suit  me  I  will  give  him  liberal  wages.  You 


TIME,     FAITH,     ENERGY.  89 

will  do  exactly ;  and  if  you  will  take  charge  of  my  shop,  T 
will  make  your  wages  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  What  do 
you  say  to  that?" 

"  I  rather  think,"  replied  Gordon,  "  that  I  will  accept 
your  offer.  Five  dollars  a  week  advance  in  wages  for  a 
poor  man  is  a  consideration  not  lightly  to  be  passed  by." 

"  It  is  not,  certainly,"  remarked  Evenly.     "  Then  I  may 
consider  it  settled  that  you  will  take  charge  of  my  shop." 
"  Yes.     I  believe  I  needn't  hesitate  about  the  matter." 
So  the  arrangement  was  made,  and  Gordon  went  back 
to  the   shop  as  foreman,  from  which   he  had  been  dis 
charged  as  a  journeyman  three  years  before. 

Firmly  bent  upon  commencing  the  business  for  himself, 
whenever  he  should  feel  himself  able  to  do  so,  Gordon  con 
tinued  his  frugal  mode  of  living  for  two  years  longer,  when 
the  amount  of  his  savings,  interest  and  all  added,  was  very 
nearly  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  The  time  had  now  come 
for  him  to  take  the  step  he  had  contemplated  for  four 
years.  Evenly  received  the  announcement  with  undis 
guised  astonishment.  After  committing  to  such  competent 
hands  the  entire  manufacturing  part  of  his  business,  he  had 
given  himself  up  more  and  more  to  dissipation.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  active  and  energetic  manner  in  which  the 
affairs  of  the  shop  were  conducted  by  Gordon,  every  thing 
would  have  fallen  into  disorder.  But  in  a  fair  ratio  with 
the  neglect  of  his  principal  was  he  efficient  as  his  agent. 

"  I  can't  let  you  go,"  said  Evenly,  when  Gordon  in 
formed  him  of  his  intention  to  go  into  business  for  himself. 
"  If  fifteen  dollars  a  week  doesn't  satisfy  you,  you  shall 
have  twenty." 

"  It  is  not  the  wages,"  replied  Gordon.  "  I  wish  to  go 
into  business  for  myself.  From  the  first  this  has  been  my 
intention." 

"But  you  hav'n't  the  capital." 

"  Yes.     I  have  fifteen  hundred  dollars." 

"  You  have !" 

"  Yes.  I  have  saved  it  in  four  years.  That  will  give 
rne  a  fair  start.  I  am  not  afraid  for  the  rest." 

Evenly  felt  well  satisfied  that  if  Gordon  went  into 'busi 
ness  for  himself,  his  own  would  be  ruined,  and  therefore, 
finding  all  efforts  to  dissuade  him  from  his  purpose  of  no 


90  TIME,     FAITH,     ENERGY. 

avail,  he  offered  to  take  him  in  as  a  partner.  But  to  this 
came  an  unexpected  objection.  Gordon  was  averse  to 
such  a  connection.  Being  pressed  to  state  the  reason  why, 
he  frankly  said — 

"  My  unwillingness  to  enter  into  business  with  you 
arises  from  the  fact  that  you  are,  as  I  was  four  years  ago, 
a  slave  to  strong  drink.  You  are  not  yourself  one  half  of 
the  time,  and  hardly  ever  in  a  fit  condition  to  attend  to 
business.  Pardon  me  for  saying  this.  But  you  asked  for 
my  reason,  and  I  have  given  it." 

Evenly,  at  first,  was  angry.  But  reflection  soon  came, 
and  then  he  felt  humiliated  as  he  had  never  felt  before. 
There  was  no  intention  on  the  part  of  Gordon  to  insult 
him,  nor  to  triumph  over  him,  but  rather  a  feeling  of  sor 
row  ;  and  this  Evenly  saw. 

"  And  this  is  your  only  objection  ?"  he  at  length  said. 

"  I  have  none  other,"  replied  Gordon. 

"  If  it  did  not  exist  you  would  meet  my  proposals  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly." 

"  Then  it  shall  no  longer  exist.  From  this  hour  I  will 
be  as  free  from  the  vice  you  have  named  as  you  are." 

"  Will  you  sign  the  pledge?" 

"  Yes,  this  very  hour." 

And  he  did  so. 

A  year  afterwards  an  old  friend,  who  had  joined  the 
temperance  ranks  about  the  time  Gordon  did,  and  who  had 
only  got  along  moderately  well,  passed  the  establishment 
of  EVENLY  &  GORDON,  and  saw  the  latter  standing  in  the 
door. 

"  Are  you  in  this  concern  ?"  he  asked,  in  some  sur 
prise. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  making  money  fast  ?" 

"  We  are  doing  very  well." 

"  Gordon,  I  don't  understand  this  altogether.  I  tried  to 
recover  myself,  but  soon  got  discouraged,  and  have  ever 
since  plodded  along  in  a  poor  way.  I  live,  it  is  true ;  but 
you  are  doing  much  better  than  that.  What  is  vour  se 
cret?" 

"  It  lies  in  three  words,"  replied  Gordon. 

"  Name  them." 


TIME,    FAITH,    ENERGY.  91 

"Time,  Faith,  Energy!" 

The  man  looked  startled  for  a  moment,  and  then  walked 
away  wiser  than  when  he  asked  the  question.  Whether 
he  will  profit  by  the  answer  we  cannot  tell.  Others  may, 
if  they  will. 


FLUSHED  WITH  WINE. 


"  WASN'T  that  Ernestine  Lee  that  we  passed  this  mo 
ment  V  asked  Harvey  Lane,  a  young  M.  D.,  of  his  friend 
James  Everett,  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"Yes,  I  believe  it  was — "  Everett  returned,  rather 
coldly. 

"  You  believe  it  was !  Surely,  James,  nothing  has  occur 
red  to  destroy  the  intimacy  that  has  for  some  time  exist 
ed  between  you." 

"  You  saw  that  we  did  not  speak." 
« I  did." 

"  And,  probably,  shall  never  be  on  terms .  of  friendship 
again." 

4<  What  you  say  pains  me  very  much,  James.  Of  course 
there  is  a  reason  for  so  great  a  change.  May  I  ask  what 
it  is?" 

"  It  is,  no  doubt,  a  good  deal  my  own  fault.     But  still, 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  she  has  taken  offence  too  sud 
denly,  where  no  offence  was  intended.     You  know  that  I 
have  been  long  paying  attentions  to  her  7" 
"Yes." 

"  If  I  remember  rightly,  I  told  you  last  week,  that  my 
intentions  towards  her  were  of  a  serious  character.  In 
a  word,  that  I  had  fully  made  up  my  mind  to  ask  her 
hand  in  marriage." 

"  O,  yes, — I  remember  it  very  well.  And  that  is  the 
reason  why  I  felt  so  much  surprised  at  seeing  you  pass 
each  other,  without  speaking." 

"  Well,  a  few  evenings  ago,  I  called,  as  usual,  intend 
ing,  if  a  good  opportunity  offered,  to  make  known  my 
true  feelings  towards  her.  Unfortunately,  I  had  dined  out 
that  day  with  some  young  friends.  We  sat  late  at  table, 
and  when  I  left,  I  was  a  little  flushed  with  wine.  It  was 
a  very  little,  for  you  know  that  I  can  drink  pretty  freely 
without  its  being  seen.  But,  somehow,  or  other,  I  was 
more  elated  than  is  usual  with  me  on  such  occasions,  and 

(92) 


FLUSHED     WITH     WINE.  93 

when  I  called  on  Ernestine,  felt  as  free  and  easy  as  if 
everything  was  settled,  and  we  were  to  be  married  in  a 
week.  For  a  time,  we  chatted  together  very  pleasantly ; 
then  I  asked  her  to  play  and  sing  for  me.  She  went  to 
the  piano,  at  my  request,  and  played  and  sung  two  or 
three  very  sweet  airs.  I  don't  know  which  it  was  that 
elated  my  feelings  so  much  —  the  wine,  or  the  delightful 
music.  Certain  it  is,  that  at  the  conclusion  of  a  piece,  I 
was  in  such  rapture,  that  I  threw  my  arms  around  her 
neck,  drew  back  her  head,  and  kissed  her  with  emphatic 
earnestness." 

"  Why,  James !" 

"  You  may  well  be  surprised  at  the  commission  of  so 
rude  and  ungentlemanly  an  act.  But,  as  I  have  said,  / 
was  flushed  with  wine" 

"  How  did  Ernestine  act  ?" 

"  She  was,  of  course,  deeply  indignant  at  the  unwar 
rantable  liberty.  Springing  from  the  piano-stool,  her  face 
crimsoned  over,  she  drew  herself  up  with  a  dignified  air, 
and  ordered  me  instantly  to  leave  her  presence.  I 
attempted  to  make  an  apology,  but  she  would  not  hear  a 
word.  I  have  since  written  to  her,  but  my  letter  has  been 
returned  unopened." 

"  Really,  that  is  unfortunate,"  the  friend  of  Everett 
said,  with  concern.  "  Ernestine  is  a  girl  whom  any  man 
might  be  proud  to  gain  as  a  wife.  And,  besides  her  per 
sonal  qualifications,  a  handsome  fortune  will  go  with  her 
hand." 

"  I  know  all  that  too  well,  Harvey.  Fool  that  I  have 
been,  to  mar  such  prospects  as  were  mine !  But  she  must 
have  known  that  I  was  not  myself —  and  ought  to  have 
charged  the  fault  upon  the  wine,  and  not  upon  me." 

"  Such  a  discrimination  is  not  usually  made." 

"I  know  that  it  is  not.  And  for  not  making  it  in  my 
case,  I  certainly  cannot  help  blaming  Ernestine  a  little. 
She  must  have  known,  that,  had  I  not  been  flushed  with 
wine,  I  never  would  have  taken  the  liberty  with  her  that 
I  did.  As  it  is,  however,  I  am  not  only  pained  at  the 
consequences  of  my  foolishness,  but  deeply  mortified  at 
my  conduct." 

"  Is  there  no  hope  of  a  reconciliation  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  there  is  any.     If  she  had  accepted  my 


94  FLUSHED     WITH     WINE. 

written  apology  for  the  act,  there  would  have  been  some 
hope.  But  me  fact  of  her  returning  my  letter  unopened, 
is  conclusive  as  to  the  permanency  of  the  breach.  I  can 
now  make  no  further  advances." 

"  Truly,  it  is  mortifying !"  the  friend  remarked.  Then, 
after  a  pause,  he  added,  with  emphasis — 

"  What  fools  this  wine  does  make  of  us,  sometimes !" 

"Doesn't  it?  Another  such  a  circumstance  as  this, 
would  almost  drive  me  to  join  a  temperance  society." 

"  O,  no,  hardly  that,  James." 

"  Well,  perhaps  not.  But,  at  least,  to  eschew  wine 
for  ever." 

"Wine  is  good  enough  in  its  place;  but,  like  fire,  is 
rather  a  bad  master.  Like  you,  I  have  injured  my  pros 
pects  in  life  by  an  over-indulgence  in  the  pleasures  of  the 
cup." 

"  You  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  When  did  that  happen  ?" 

"  Since  I  last  saw  you." 

"  Indeed !  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so.  But  how 
was  it  ? — tell  me." 

"  You  know,  that  as  a  young  physician,  I  shall  have  to 
struggle  on  in  this  city  for  years  before  I  can  rise  to  any 
degree  of  distinction,  unless  aided  by  some  fortunate  cir 
cumstance,  that  shall  be  as  a  stepping-stone  upon  which 
to  elevate  me,  and  enable  me  to  gain  the  public  eye.  I 
am  conscious  that  I  have  mastered  thoroughly  the  prin 
ciples  of  my  profession  —  and  that,  in  regard  to  surgery, 
particularly,  I  possess  a  skill  not  surpassed  by  many  who 
have  handled  the  knife  for  years.  Of  this  fact,  my  surgi 
cal  teacher,  who  is  my  warm  friend,  is  fully  aware.  At 
every  important  case  that  he  has,  I  am  desired  to  be  pre 
sent,  and  assist  in  the  operation,  and  once  or  twice,  where 
there  were  no  friends  of  the  patient  to  object,  I  have  been 
permitted  to  perform  the  operation  myself,  and  always 
with  success.  In  this  department  of  my  profession,  I  feel 
great  confidence  in  myself —  and  it  is  that  part  of  it,  in 
which  I  take  the  most  interest." 

"  And  in  which,  I  doubt  not,  you  will  one  day  be  dis 
tinguished." 

"  I  trust  so;  and  yet,  things  look  dark  enough  just  now. 


FLUSHED     WITH     WINE.  95 

But  to  go  on.  A  few  days  ago,  I  dined  with  some  friends. 
After  dinner,  the  bottle  was  circulated  pretty  freely,  and 
I  drank  as  freely  as  the  rest,  but  was  not  aware  of  hav 
ing  taken  enough  to  produce  upon  me  any  visible  effects. 
It  was  about  an  hour  after  the  table  had  been  cleared  for 
the  wine,  that  an  unusually  loud  ringing  of  the  door-bell 
attracted  our  attention.  In  a  few  moments  after,  I  heard 
a  voice  asking,  in  hurried  tones,  for  Doctor  Lane.  Going 
down  at  once  to  the  hall,  I  found  old  Mr.  Camper  there, 
the  rich  merchant,  in  a  state  of  great  agitation. 

"'Doctor,'  said  he,  grasping  my  arm, —  'a  most  terri 
ble  accident  has  happened  to  my  daughter ! — thrown  from 
a  carriage !  —  My  physician  cannot  be  found,  and  as  I 
have  often  heard  your  skill  warmly  alluded  to  by  him,  I 
desire  your  instant  attendance.  My  carriage  is  at  the 
door — Come  along  with  me,  quickly.' 

"Catching  up  my  hat,  I  attended  him  at  once,  and 
during  our  rapid  drive  to  his  princely  residence,  learned 
that  his  only  daughter  had  been  thrown  from  a  carriage, 
and  dreadfully  injured ;  but  in  what  way,  could  not  ascer 
tain.  Unaccountably  to  myself,  I  found  my  mind  all  in 
confusion, — and,  strange,  unprofessional  omission !  forgot 
to  request  that  I  be  driven  first  to  my  office  for  my  case 
of  instruments.  We  had  not  proceeded  half  the  distance 
to  Mr.  Camper's  residence,  before  I  noticed  that  the  old 
man  became  silent,  and  that  his  eye  was  fixed  upon  me 
with  a  steady,  scrutinizing  gaze.  This  added  to  the  con 
fusion  of  mind  which  I  felt.  At  length  the  carriage  stop 
ped,  and  I  accompanied  Mr.  Camper  to  his  daughter's 
chamber,  hurriedly,  and  in  silence.  As  I  paused  by  the 
bed  upon  which  she  lay,  I  again  noticed  that  he  was 
regarding  me  with  a  steady  searching  look,  and  an  ex 
pression  of  face  that  I  did  not  like,  and  could  not  under 
stand. 

"  I  proceeded,  however,  at  once,  to  examine  the  con 
dition  of  my  patient,  who  lay  in  a  kind  of  stupor.  There 
was  a  deep  gash  on  the  side  of  her  face,  from  which  the 
blood  had  issued  profusely.  By  the  aid  of  warm-water, 
I  soon  cleared  the  wound  from  a  mass  of  coagulated 
blood  that  had  collected  around  it,  and  was  glad  to  find 
that  it  was  not  a  serious  one.  I  then  proceeded  to 
examine  if  there  were  any  fractures.  All  this  time  my 


96  FLUSHED     WITH     WINE. 

hands  were  unsteady,  my  face  burned,  and  my  mind  was 
confused.  /  was  conscious  that  I  had  taken  too  much 
wine. 

" « There  is  no  apparent  injury  here,'  I  at  length  said, 
after  examining  the  arms  and  chest.  «She  is  probably 
only  stunned  by  the  concussion.' 

"  '  But  she  could  not  stand  on  her  feet  when  first  lifted 
after  the  fall,  and  fainted  immediately  upon  attempting  to 
sustain  her  own  weight,'  Mr.  Camper  replied. 

"  I  then  made  further  examination,  and  found  sad  indi 
cations  of  her  fall,  in  a  fractured  patella.  The  knee 
was,  however,  so  swollen,  that  I  could  not  ascertain  the 
nature,  nor  extent  of  the  fracture. 

" '  What  do  you  find  the  matter  there,  doctor  1'  Mr. 
Camper  asked,  after  I  had  finished  my  examination. 

"'A  very  serious  injury,  sir,  I  am  sorry  to  say,'  was 
my  reply. 

" '  Of  what  nature  V  was  his  somewhat  stern  inquiry. 

" '  Her  knee-pan  is  fractured,  sir ;  but  so  much  swollen, 
that  I  cannot,  now,  fully  ascertain  the  extent  of  the 
injury.' " 

"  Henry !"  cried  the  old  man  in  a  quick,  eager  tone  to 

an  attendant,  "go  again  for  doctor  L ;  and  if  he  is 

not  in,  go  for  doctor  R ;  and  if  you  cannot  find  him, 

call  on  doctor  T ,  and  ask  him  to  come  instantly." 

The  attendant  hurriedly  departed,  when  Mr.  Campei 
turned  slowly  towards  me,  with  a  mingled  expression  of 
anger,  pain,  and  contempt,  upon  his  face,  and  said,  in  a 
Stern  voice, 

" '  Go  home  young  man !  and  quit  drinking  wine,  or 
quit  the  profession  !  You  are  in  no  fit  state  to  undertake 
a  case  like  this.' 

"  It  came  upon  me  like  a  peal  of  thunder  from  an  un 
clouded  summer  sky.  It  was  the  knell  of  newly-awaken 
ed  hopes  —  the  darkening  of  newly-opening  prospects. 
Silently  I  turned  away  under  the  cutting  rebuke,  and  left 
the  house." 

"  Really,  that  was  most  unfortunate  !"  his  friend  Everett 
remarked,  with  earnest  sympathy. 

"  Could  anything  have  been  more  unfortunate,  or  more 
mortifying.  Her  case  was  one  that  I  fully  understood ; 
and  could  have  treated  successfully.  It  would  have 


FLUSHED     WITH     WINE.  97 

brought  me  into  contact  with  the  family  for  six  months, 
or  more,  and  the  eclat  which  I  should  have  derived  from 
the  case,  would  have  given  me  a  prominence  as  a  young 
surgeon,  that  I  am  afraid  the  fact  of  my  losing  the  case 
under  such  mortifying  circumstances,  will  prevent  me 
ever  attaining  in  this  city." 

"  Really,  Harvey,  I  do  feel  exceedingly  pained  at  what 
you  have  told  me.  Confound  this  wine !  I  believe  it  does 
more  harm  than  good." 

"  Too  free  an  indulgence  of  it  does,  no  doubt.  Our 
error  has  lain  in  this.  We  must  be  more  prudent  in 
future." 

"  Suppose  we  swear  off  for  ever  from  touching  it." 

"  No,  I  will  not  do  that.  Wine  is  good  in  its  place,  and 
I  shall  continue  to  use  it,  but  more  moderately.  A  phy 
sician  never  knows  the  moment  he  may  be  called  upon, 
and  should,  therefore,  always  be  in  a  state  to  exercise  a 
clear  head  and  a  steady  hand." 

"  Certainly,  we  have  both  of  us  had  lessons  not  soon  to 
be  forgotten,"  was  the  reply;  and  then  the  two  young  men 
separated. 

Two  weeks  from  the  day  this  conversation  took  place, 
doctor  Lane  and  his  friend  James  Everett  met  at  a  sup 
per-party,  where  all  kinds  of  liquors  were  introduced,  and 
every  kind  of  inducement  held  out  for  the  company  to 
drink  freely.  Both  of  the  young  men  soon  forgot  their 
resolutions  to  be  guarded  in  respect  to  the  use  of  wine. 
As  the  first  few  glasses  began  to  take  effect,  in  an  eleva 
tion  of  spirits,  each  felt  a  kind  of  pride  in  the  thought 
that  he  could  bear  as  much  as  any  one  there,  and  not 
show  signs  of  intoxication. 

By  eleven  o'clock,  there  was  not  one  at  the  table  who 
was  not  drunk  enough  to  be  foolish.  The  rational  and 
intelligent  conversation  that  had  been  introduced  early  in 
the  evening,  had  long  since  given  place  to  the  obscene 
jest — the  vulgar  story — or  the  bacchanalian  song.  Gay 
est  of  the  gay  were  our  young  men,  who  had  already, 
one  would  think,  received  sufficient  lessons  of  prudence 
and  temperance. 

"  Take  care,  James !"  cried  Lane,  across  the  table  to 
his  friend  Everett,  familiarly,  late  in  the  evening.  "  You 


98  FLUSHED     WITH     WINE. 

are  pouring  the  wine  on  the  table,  instead  of  in  your 
glass." 

"You  are  beginning  to  see  double,"  was  Everett's 
reply,  lifting  his  head  with  a  slight  drunken  air,  and 
throwing  a  half-angry  glance  upon  his  friend. 

"  That  is  more  than  you  can  do,"  was  the  retort,  with 
a  meaning  toss  of  the  head. 

« I  don't  understand  you,"  Everett  said,  pausing  with 
the  decanter  still  in  his  hand,  and  eyeing  his  friend, 
steadily. 

"  Don't  you,  indeed !  You  see  yourself  in  a  state  of 
blessed  singleness — ha!  Do  you  take?" 

"  Look  here,  James,  —  you  are  my  friend.  But  there 
are  things  that  I  will  not  allow  even  a  friend  to  utter.  So 
take  care  now !" 

"  Ha !  ha !  There  comes  the  raw.  Do  I  rub  too  hard, 
my  boy  ?' 

"  You  're  drunk,  and  a  fool  into  the  bargain !"  was  the 
angry  retort  of  Everett. 

"Not  so  drunk  as  you  were  when  you  hugged  and 
kissed  Ernestine  Lee  !  How  do  you  like ?" 

Lane  could  not  finish  the  sentence,  before  the  decanter 
which  Everett  had  held  in  his  hand  glanced  past  his  head 
with  fearful  velocity,  and  was  dashed  into  fragments 
against  the  wall  behind  him.  The  instant  interference  of 
friends  prevented  any  further  acts  of  violence. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  on  the  next  morning  that 
young  doctor  Lane  sat  in  his  office,  musing  on  the  events 
of  the  previous  night,  of  which  he  had  only  a  confused 
recollection,  when  a  young  man  entered,  and  presented  a 
note.  On  opening  it,  he  found  it  to  be  a  challenge  from 
Everett. 

"  Leave  me  your  card,  and  I  will  refer  my  friend  to 
you,"  was  his  reply,  with  a  cold  bow,  as  he  finished  read 
ing  the  note. 

The  card  was  left,  and  the  stranger,  with  a  frigid  bow 
in  return,  departed. 

"  Fool,  fool  that  I  have  been !''  ejaculated  Lane,  rising 
to  his  feet,  and  pacing  the  floor  of  his  office  backwards 
and  forwards  with  hurried  steps.  This  was  continued 
for  nearly  half  an  hour,  during  which  time  his  counte 
nance  wore  a  painful  and  gloomy  expression.  At  last, 


FLUSHED     WITH     WINE.  99 

pausing,  and  seating  himself  at  a  table,  he  murmured,  as 
he  lifted  a  pen, 

"  It  is  too  late  now  for  vain  regrets." 

He  then  wrote  a  note  with  a  hurried  air,  and  dispatch 
ed  it  by  an  attendant.  This  done,  he  again  commenced 
pacing  the  floor  of  his  office,  but  now  with  slower  steps, 
and  a  face  expressive  of  sad  determination.  In  about 
twenty  minutes  a  young  man  entered,  saying,  as  he  did 
so — 

"  I  'm  here  at  a  word,  Harvey — and  now  what  is  this 
important  business  which  I  can  do  for  you,  and  for  which 
you  are  going  to  be  so  everlastingly  obliged  ?" 

"  That  will  tell  you,"  Lane  briefly  said,  handing  him 
the  challenge  he  had  received. 

The  young  man's  face  turned  pale  as  he  read  the  note. 

"  Bless  me,  Harvey !"  he  ejaculated,  as  he  threw  the 
paper  upon  the  table.  "  This  is  a  serious  matter,  truly  ! 
Why  how  have  you  managed  to  offend  Everett?  I 
always  thought  that  you  were  friends  of  the  warmest 
kind." 

"  So  we  have  been,  until  now.  And  at  this  moment,  I 
have  not  an  unkind  thought  towards  him,  notwithstanding 
he  threw  a  bottle  of  wine  at  my  head  last  night,  which, 
had  it  taken  effect,  would  have,  doubtless,  killed  me  in 
stantly." 

"  How  in  the  world  did  that  happen,  doctor  ?" 

"  We  were  both  flushed  with  wine,  at  the  time.  I  said 
something  that  I  ought  not  to  have  said — something  which 
had  I  been  myself,  I  would  have  cut  off  my  right  hand 
before  I  would  have  uttered  —  and  it  roused  him  into 
instant  passion." 

"  And  not  satisfied  with  throwing  the  bottle  of  wine  at 
your  head,  he  now  sends  you  a  challenge  ?" 

"  Yes.  And  I  must  accept  it,  notwithstanding  I  have 
no  angry  feelings  against  him ;  and,  but  for  the  hasty  step 
he  has  now  taken,  would  have  most  willingly  asked  his 
pardon." 

"  That,  of  course,  is  out  of  the  question  now,"  the  friend 
replied.  "But  I  will  see  his  second;  and  endeavour, 
through  him,  to  bring  about  a  reconciliation,  if  I  can  do 
so,  honourably,  to  yourself." 

"  As  to  that,"  replied  Lane,  "  I  have  nothing  to  say 


100  FLUSHED     WITH     WINE. 

If  he  insists  upon  a  meeting,  I  will  give  him  the  satisfac 
tion  he  seeks." 

It  was  about  half  an  hour  after,  that  the  friend  of  Lane 
called  upon  the  friend  of  Everett.  They  were  old  ac 
quaintances. 

"  You  represent  Everett,  I  believe,  in  this  unpleasant 
affair  between  him  and  doctor  Lane,"  the  latter  said. 

"  I  do,"  was  the  grave  reply. 

"  Surely  we  can  prevent  a  meeting !"  the  friend  of  Lane 
said,  with  eagerness. 

"  I  do  not  see  how,"  was  the  reply. 

"  They  were  flushed  with  wine  when  the  provocation 
occurred,  and  this  ought  to  prevent  a  fatal  meeting.  If 
Lane  insulted  Everett,  it  was  because  he  was  not  himself 
Had  he  been  perfectly  sober,  he  would  never  have  uttered 
an  offensive  word." 

"Perhaps  not.  But  with  that  I  have  nothing  to  do. 
He  has  insulted  my  friend,  and  that  friend  asks  a  meet 
ing.  He  can  do  no  less  than  grant  it  —  or  prove  himself 
a  coward." 

"  I  really  cannot  see  the  necessity  that  this  should  fol 
low,"  urged  the  other.  "  It  seems  to  me,  that  it  is  in  our 
power  to  prevent  any  hostile  meeting." 

"  HOW  r 

"By  representing  to  the  principals  in  this  unhappy 
affair,  the  madness  of  seeking  each  other's  lives.  You 
can  learn  from  Everett  what  kind  of  an  apology,  if  any, 
will  satisfy  him,  and  then  I  can  ascertain  whether  such 
an  apology  will  be  made." 

"  You  can  do  what  you  please  in  that  way,"  the  friend 
of  Everett  replied.  "But  I  am  not  disposed  to  transcend 
my  office.  Besides,  I  know  that,  as  far  as  Everett  is  con 
cerned,  no  apology  will  be  accepted.  The  insult  was 
outrageous,  involving  a  breach  of  confidence,  and  refer 
ring  to  a  subject  of  the  most  painful,  mortifying,  and  deli 
cate  nature." 

"  I  am  really  sorry  to  hear  that  both  you  and  your 
friend  are  determined  to  push  this  matter  to  an  issue,  for 
I  had  hoped  that  an  adjustment  of  the  difficulty  would  be 
easy." 

"  No  adjustment  can  possibly  take  place.  Doctor  Lane 
must  fight,  or  be  posted  as  a  coward,  and  a  scoundrel." 


FLUSHED     WITH     WINE.  101 

"  He  holds  himself  ready  to  give  Mr.  Everett  all  the 
satisfaction  he  requires,"  was  the  half-indignant  reply. 

"  Then,  of  course,  you  are  prepared  to  name  the 
weapons ;  and  the  time  and  place  of  meeting  ?" 

"  I  am  not.  For  so  confident  did  I  feel  that  it  would 
only  be  necessary  to  see  you  to  have  all  difficulties  put  in 
a  train  for  adjustment,  that  I  did  not  confer  upon  the  sub 
ject  of  the  preliminaries  of  the  meeting.  But  I  will  seo 
you  again,  in  the  course  of  an  hour,  when  I  shall  be  ready 
to  name  them." 

"  If  you  please."    And  then  the  seconds  parted. 

"  I  am  afraid  this  meeting  will  take  place  in  spite  of  all 
that  I  can  do,"  the  friend  of  doctor  Lane  said,  on  return 
ing  after  his  interview  with  Everett's  second.  "The  pro 
vocation  which  you  gave  last  night  is  felt  to  be  so  great, 
that  no  apology  can  atone  for  it." 

"  My  blood  probably  will,  —  and  he  can  have  that !" 
was  the  gloomy  reply. 

A  troubled  silence  ensued,  which  was  at  last  broken  by 
the  question, 

"  Have  you  decided,  doctor,  upon  the  weapons  to  be 
used  ?" 

"  Pistols,  I  suppose,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Have  you  practised  much  ?" 

"  Me  !  No.  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  fired  a  pistol  in 
my  life." 

"  But  Everett  is  said  to  be  a  good  shot." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  me.     That  is  all." 

"  You  have  the  liberty  of  choosing  some  other  weapon. 
One  with  which  you  are  familiar." 

"  I  am  familiar  with  no  kind  of  deadly  weapons." 

"  Then  you  will  stand  a  poor  chance,  my  friend ;  unless 
you  name  the  day  of  meeting  next  week,  and  practise  a 
good  deal  in  the  meantime." 

"  I  shall  do  no  such  thing.  Do  you  suppose,  that  if  I 
fight  with  Everett,  I  shall  try  to  kill  him  1  No.  I  would 
not  hurt  a  hair  of  his  head.  I  am  no  murderer !" 

"  Then  you  go  out  under  the  existence  of  a  fatal 
inequality." 

I  cannot  help  that.     It  is  my  misfortune.     I  did  not 


send  the  challenge." 


13 


102  FLUSHED     WITH     WINE. 

"  That  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  make  an  effort 
to  preserve  your  own  life." 

"  If  we  both  fire  at  once,  and  both  of  our  balls  take 
effect,  the  fact  that  my  ball  strikes  him  will  not  benefit 
me  any.  And  suppose  he  should  be  killed,  and  I  survive, 
do  you  think  I  could  ever  know  a  single  hour's  happiness  ? 
No — no  —  I  choose  the  least  of  t#o  evils.  I  must  fight. 
But  I  will  not  kill." 

"  In  this  you  are  determined  ?" 

"  I  certainly  am.  I  have  weighed  the  matter  well,  and 
come  to  a  positive  decision." 

"  You  choose  pistols,  then  ?" 

"  Yes.    Let  the  weapons  be  pistols." 

"  When  shall  the  meeting  take  place  ?" 

"  Let  it  be  to-morrow  morning,  at  sunrise.  The  quicker 
it  is  over,  the  better." 

This  determined  upon,  the  friend  went  again  to  the 
second  of  Everett,  and  completed  all  necessary  arrange 
ments  for  the  duel. 

It  was  midnight,  and  young  doctor  Lane  sat  alone  in 
his  chamber,  beside  a  table,  upon  which  were  ink  and 
paper.  He  had,  evidently,  made  several  attempts  to 
write,  and  each  time  failed  from  some  cause  to  accom 
plish  his  task.  Several  sheets  of  paper  had  been  written 
upon,  and  thrown  aside.  Each  of  these  bore  the  follow 
ing  words : — 

'"My  Dear  Parents: — When  these  lines  are  read  by 
you,  the  hand  that  penned  them  will  be  cold  and  nerve 
less ." 

Thus  far  the  unhappy  young  man  could  go,  but  no 
farther.  Imagination  pictured  too  vividly  the  heart- 
stricken  father  who  had  so  often  looked  down  upon  him 
when  a  boy  with  pride  and  pleasure,  and  the  tender,  but 
now  agonized  mother,  as  that  appalling  announcement 
met  their  eyes. 

Again,  for  the  fifth  time,  he  took  up  his  pen,  murmur 
ing  in  a  low  tone,  yet  with  a  resolute  air, 

"  It  must  be  done !" 

He  had  again  written  the  words : — 

"  My  Dear  Parents " 

When  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of  steps,  strangely 
familiar  to  his  ear,  ascending  the  stairs,  and  approaching 


FLUSHED     WITH     WINE.  103 

his  chamber.  He  paused,  and  listened  with  a  heart 
almost  stilled  in  its  pulsations.  In  a  brief  space,  the  door 
of  his  room  opened,  and  a  grey-haired,  feeble  old  man 
came  slowly  in. 

"  My  father !"  exclaimed  Harvey,  starting  to  his  feet, 
in  astonishment — scarcely,  for  the  moment,  being  able  to 
realize  whether  it  were  indeed  his  father,  or,  only  an  ap 
parition. 

"  Thank  heaven !  that  I  have  found  my  son  alive — " 
ejaculated  the  old  man,  uncovering  his  head,  and  lifting 
his  eyes  upward.  "  O,  Harvey,  my  child  !"  he  then  said, 
with  an  earnest  pathos,  that  touched  the  young  man's 
heart — "  how  could  you  so  far  forget  us  as  to  think  even 
for  a  single  moment  of  the  dreadful  act  you  are  preparing 
to  commit?" 

"  I  had  hoped  to  be  spared  this  severest  trial  of  all," — 
the  young  man  said,  rising  and  grasping  the  hand  of  his 
father,  while  the  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes.  "  What  offici 
ous  friend  has  taken  the  pains  to  disturb  both  your  peace 
and  mine  —  dragging  you  thus  away  from  your  home,  in 
the  vain  effort  to  prevent  an  act  that  must  take  place." 

"  Speak  not  so  rashly,  my  son  !  It  cannot,  it  must  not, 
it  shall  not  take  place  !" 

"  I  have  no  power  to  prevent  it,  father." 

"  You  are  a  free  agent." 

"  Not  to  do  a  deed  of  dishonour, — or,  rather,  I  am  not 
free  to  suffer  dishonour." 

"  There  is  no  honour  in  wantonly  risking  or  taking 
life,  Harvey." 

"  I  insulted  a  friend,  in  the  grossest  manner." 

"  That  was  dishonourable.  But  why  did  you  insult 
him  1" 

"  I  was  flushed  with  wine." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head,  sadly. 

"  I  know  it  was  wrong,  father.  But  it  can't  be  helped 
now.  Well,  as  I  said,  I  insulted  him,  and  he  has  demand 
ed  satisfaction.  Can  I  do  less  than  give  it  to  him  ?" 

"  If  you  insulted  him,  you  can  apologize.  And,  from 
what  I  know  of  James  Everett,  he  will  at  once  forgive." 

"  I  cannot  do  that  now,  father.  He  threw  a  bottle  of 
wine  at  my  head,  and  then  precipitately  challenged  me. 
I  owe  at  least  something  to  myself." 


104  FLUSHED     WITH     WINE. 

"  And  something,  I  should  think,  to  your  mother,  if  not 
to  me,"  replied  the  old  man,,  bitterly.  "  How,  think  you 
she  will  receive  the  news  of  your  death,  if  the  combat 
should  terminate  fatally  for  you  ?  Or,  how,  if  your  hands 
should  become  stained  with  the  blood  of  your  friend  ?" 

"  Talk  not  thus,  father !  Talk  not  thus !"  ejaculated  the 
young  man,  rising  up  quickly,  and  beginning  to  pace  the 
floor  of  his  chamber  with  hurried  steps.  "  Is  not  my 
situation  dreadful  enough  viewed  in  any  light?  Then  why 
seek  to  agonize  my  heart  with  what  I  would  gladly  forget? 
I  arn  already  racked  with  tortures  that  can  scarcely  be 
endured — why  seek  to  run  my  cup  of  misery  over?" 

"  I  seek  but  to  save  you,  my  child,"  the  father  replied, 
in  a  voice  that  suddenly  became  low  and  tremulous. 

"  It  is  a  vain  effort.  There  is  but  one  course  for  me, 
and  that  is  to  go  on,  and  meet  whatever  consequences 
ensue.  The  result  may  not  be  so  bad  as  feared." 

"  Harvey !"  old  Mr.  Lane  said,  in  a  voice  that  had 
somewhat  regained  its  steadiness  of  tone.  "  This  meet 
ing  must  not  take  place.  If  you  persist  in  going  out  to 
morrow  morning,  I  must  take  measures  to  prevent  it." 

"  And  thus  dishonour  your  son." 

"  All  dishonour  that  will  appertain  to  you,  Harvey,  ap 
pertains  to  you  now.  You  insulted  your  friend.  Neither 
your  death  nor  his  can  atone  for  that  offence.  If  repara 
tion  be  truly  made,  it  will  come  in  some  other  form." 

"  It  is  vain  to  urge  that  matter  with  me,"  was  the  reply 
to  this.  "  I  must  give  James  Everett  the  satisfaction  he 
requires  to-morrow  morning.  And  now,  father,  if  I  should 
fall,  which  heaven  forbid  for  others'  sakes  more  than  my 
own,"  and  the  young  man's  voice  quivered,  "  break  the 
matter  to  my  mother  as  gently  as  possible — tell  her,  that 
my  last  thoughts  were  of  her,  and  my  last  prayer  that 
she  might  be  given  strength  from  above  to  bear  this  heavy 
affliction." 

****#* 

It  was  a  damp,  drizzly  morning,  just  at  break  of  day, 
•when  Harvey  Lane,  accompanied  by  his  friend,  and  a 
young  physician,  entered  a  close  carriage,  and  started  for 
the  duelling-ground,  which  had  been  selected,  some  four 
miles  from  the  city.  Two  neat  mahogany  cases  were 
taken  along,  one  containing  a  pair  of  duelling  pistols,  and 


FLUSHED     WITH     WINE.  107 

the  other  a  set  of  surgical  instruments.  As  these  were 
handed  in,  the  eye  of  Lane  rested  upon  them  for  a  mo 
ment.  They  conjured  up  in  his  mind  no  very  pleasant 
thoughts.  He  was  very  pale,  and  silent.  Nor  did  his 
companions  seem  in  much  better  condition,  or  much  better 
spirits.  A  rapid  drive  of  nearly  three  quarters  of  an  hour 
brought  them  upon  the  ground.  The  other  party  had  not 
yet  arrived,  but  came  up  in  a  few  minutes  afterwards. 
Then  commenced  the  formal  preparations.  The  ground 
was  measured  off — ten  paces.  The  seconds  prepared  the 
deadly  weapons  which  were  to  heal  the  honour  that  had 
been  so  dreadfully  wounded,  and  arranged  all  the  minor 
provisions  of  the  duel. 

During  all  this  time,  neither  of  the  young  men  looked 
towards  each  other,  but  each  paced  rapidly  over  a  little 
space  of  ground,  backwards  and  forwards,  with  agitated 
steps  —  though   evidently  with   an  effort  to   seem  com 
posed. 

"Ready,"  said  Lane's  second,  at  length,  close  to  his 
ear. 

The  young  man  started,  and  his  cheek  blanched  to  a 
pale  hue.  He  had  been  thinking  of  his  father  and  mo 
ther.  With  almost  the  vividness  of  reality  had  he  seen 
them  before  him,  and  heard  their  earnest,  tearful  plead 
ings  with  him  to  forbear  for  their  sakes,  if  not  for  his 
own.  But  he  took  the  deadly  weapon  in  his  hand  me 
chanically,  and  moved  to  the  position  that  had  been 
assigned  him.  The  arrangement  was,  that  the  seconds 
should  give  the  words — one — two — three — in  slow  suc 
cession,  and  that  the  parties  should  fire  as  soon  after 
"  three"  was  uttered,  as  they  chose. 

Their  positions  taken,  the  young  men's  eyes  met  for  the 
first  time  —  and  for  the  first  time  they  looked  again  upon 
each  other's  faces.  The  word  one  had  been  given,  at 
which  each  raised  his  pistol, — two  was  uttered — and  then 
another  individual  was  suddenly,  and  unexpectedly  added 
to  the  party,  who  threw  himself  in  front  of  Harvey  Lane, 
in  range  of  both  the  deadly  weapons.  Turning,  then, 
towards  Everett,  he  said,  lifting  his  hat,  and  letting  his 
thin  grey  hairs  fall  about  his  forehead — 

"  We  cannot  spare  our  son,  yet,  James  !  We  are  grow 
ing  old,  and  he  is  our  only  child.  If  he  were  taken  thus 


108  FLUSHED     WITH     WINE. 

away  from  us,  we  should  not  be  able  to  bear  it.  For  our 
sakes,  then,  James,  if  he  has  injured  you,  forgive  him." 

Already  had  the  face  of  his  old  and  long-tried  friend, 
as  he  met  its  familiar  expression,  softened  in  some  degree 
the  feelings  of  Everett,'and  modified  the  angry  vindictive- 
ness  which  he  still  continued  to  cherish.  The  apparition 
of  the  father,  and  his  unexpected  appeal,  completely  con 
quered  him,  and  he  threw,  with  a  sudden  effort,  his  pistol 
away  some  twenty  yards. 

"  I  am  satisfied !"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  advancing, 
and  taking  the  old  man's  hand.  "  You  have  conquered 
the  vindictive  pride  of  a  foolish  heart." 

"  I  know  that  'I  grossly  insulted  you,  James" —  Harvey 
Lane  said,  coming  quickly  forward,  and  offering  his  hand. 
"  But  would  I,  could  I  have  done  it,  if  I  had  been  my 
self.?" 

"No,  Harvey,  you  could  not!  And  I  was  mad  and 
blind  that  I  would  not  see  this" —  Everett  replied,  grasp 
ing  the  hand  of  his  friend.  "  We  were  both  flushed  with 
wine,  and  that  made  both  of  us  fools.  Surely,  Harvey, 
we  have  had  warning  enough,  of  the  evil  of  drinking. 
Within  the  last  two  weeks,  it  has  seriously  marred  our 
prospects  in  life,  and  now  it  has  brought  us  out  here  with 
the  deliberate  intent  of  taking  each  other's  lives." 

"  From  this  hour,  I  solemnly  declare,  that  I  will  never 
again  touch,  taste,  or  handle  the  accursed  thing !"  Lane 
said,  with  strong  emphasis. 

"  In  that  resolution  I  join  you,"  replied  Everett,  with  a 
like  earnest  manner.  "  And  let  this  resolution  be  the  seal 
ing  bond  of  our  perpetual  friendship." 

"Amen!"  ejaculated  Harvey  Lane,  solemnly, —  and, 
"Amen!"  responded  the  old  man,  fervently,  lifting  his 
eyes  to  Heaven. 


SWEARING    OFF. 


"  JOHN,"  said  a  sweet-faced  girl,  laying  her  hand  fami 
liarly  upon  the  shoulder  of  a  young  man  who  was  seated 
near  a  window  in  deep  abstraction  of  mind.  There  was 
something  sad  in  her  voice, — and  her  countenance,  though 
lovely,  wore  an  expression  of  pain., 

"  What  do  you  want,  sister  1"  the  young  man  replied, 
without  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  floor. 

"  You  are  not  happy,  brother." 

To  this,  there  was  no  reply,  and  an  embarrassing  pause 
of  some  moments  ensued. 

"  May  I  speak  a  word  with  you,  brother  1" — the  young 
girl  at  length  said,  with  a  tone  and  manner  that  showed 
her  to  be  compelling  herself  to  the  performance  of  a  pain 
ful  and  repugnant  task. 

"  On  what  subject,  Alice  ?"  the  brother  asked,  looking 
up  with  a  doubting  expression. 

This  question  brought  the  colour  to  Alice's  cheeks,  and 
the  moisture  to  her  eyes. 

"You  know  what  I  would  say,  John,"  she  at  length 
inade  out  to  utter,  in  a  voice  that  slightly  trembled. 

"  How  should  I  know,  sister  ?" 

"  You  were  not  yourself  last  night,  John." 

"  Alice !" 

"  Forgive  me,  brother,  for  what  I  now  say,"  the  maiden 
rejoined.  "  It  is  a  painful  trial,  indeed ;  and  were  it  not 
that  I  loved  you  so  well  —  were  it  not  that,  besides  you, 
there  is  no  one  else  in  the  wide  world  to  whom  I  can  look 
up,  I  might  shrink  from  a  sister's  duty.  But  I  feel  that  it 
would  be  wrong  for  me  not  to  whisper  in  your  ear  one 
warning  word  —  wrong  not  to  try  a  sister's  power  over 
you." 

"  I  will  forgive  you  this  time,  on  one  condition,"  the 
brother  said,  in  a  tone  of  rebuke,  and  with  a  grave  ex 
pression  of  countenance. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  asked  Alice. 

(109) 


110  SWEARING     OFF. 

"On  condition  that  you  never  again,  directly  or  in 
directly,  allude  to  this  subject.  It  is  not  in  your  province 
to  do  so.  A  sister  should  not  look  out  for  her  brother's 
faults." 

A  sudden  gush  of  tears  followed  this  cold,  half-angry 
repulse;  and  then  the  maiden  turned  slowly  away  and 
left  the  room. 

John  Barclay's  anger  towards  his  only  sister,  who  had 
no  one,  as  she  had  feelingly  said,  in  the  wide  world  to 
look  up  to  and  love,  but  him,  subsided  the  moment  he  saw 
how  deeply  his  rebuke  had  wounded  her.  But  he  could 
not  speak  to  her,  nor  recall  his  words — for  the  subject  she 
had  introduced  was  one  so  painful  and  mortifying,  that 
he  could  not  bear  an  allusion  to  it. 

From  long  indulgence,  the  habit  of  drinking  had  become 
confirmed  in  the  young  man  to  such  a  degree  that  he  had 
almost  ceased  to  resist  an  inclination  that  was  gaining  a 
dangerous  power  over  him.  And  yet  there  was  in  his 
mind  an  abiding  resolution  one  day  to  break  away  from 
this  habit.  He  did  not  intend  to  become  a  drunkard. 
Oh,  no !  The  condition  of  a  drunkard  was  too  low  and 
degrading.  He  could  never  sink  to  that !  After  awhile, 
he  intended  to  "  swear  off,"  as  he  called  it,  and  be  done 
-with  the  seductive  poison  altogether ;  but  he  had  not  yet 
been  able  to  bring  so  good  a  resolution  into  present  ac 
tivity.  This  being  his  state  of  mind  —  conscious  of  dan 
ger,  and  yet  unwilling  to  fly  from  that  danger,  he  could 
not  bear  any  allusion  to  the  subject. 

Half  an  hour,  passed  in  troubled  thought,  elapsed  after 
this  brief  interview  between  the  brother  and  sister,  when 
the  young  man  left  the  house  and  took  his  way,  scarcely 
reflecting  upon  where  he  was  going,  to  one  of  his  accus 
tomed  places  of  resort — a  fashionable  drinking  house, 
where  every  device  that  ingenuity  could  invent,  was  dis 
played  to  attract  custom.  Splendid  mirrors  and  pictures 
hung  against  the  walls,  affecting  the  mind  with  pleasing 
thoughts  —  and  tempting  to  self-indulgence.  There  were 
lounges,  where  one  might  recline  at  ease,  while  he  sipped 
the  delicious  compounds  the  richly  furnished  bar  afford 
ed,  never  once  dreaming  that  a  serpent  lay  concealed  in 
the  cup  that  he  held  to  his  lips  —  a  serpent  that  one  dav 
would  sting  him,  perhaps  unto  death  ! 


SWEARING    OFF.  Ill 

"  Regular  as  clock-work," — said  an  old  man,  a  friend 
of  Barclay's  father,  who  had  been  dead  several  years, 
meeting  the  young  man  as  he  was  about  to  enter  the 
attractive  establishment  just  alluded  to. 

"  How  ?"  asked  Barclay  in  a  tone  of  enquiry. 

"  Six  times  a  day,  John,  is  too  often  for  you  to  be  seen 
going  into  the  same  drinking-house," —  said  the  old  man, 
\vith  plain-spoken  honesty. 

"  You  must  not  talk  to  me  in  that  way,  Mr.  Gray," 
the  other  rejoined  sternly. 

"  My  respect  and  regard  for  the  father,  will  ever  cause 
me  to  speak  plainly  to  the  son  when  I  think  him  in 
danger,"  was  Mr.  Gray's  calm  reply. 

"  In  danger  of  what,  Mr.  Gray  ?" 

"  In  danger  of shall  I  utter  the  word  in  speaking 

of  the   son  of  my  old   friend,  Mr.  Barclay  1    Yes ;   in 
danger  of — drunkenness  !" 

"  Mr.  Gray,  I  cannot  permit  any  one  to  speak  to  me 
thus." 

"  Be  not  offended  at  me,  John.     I  utter  but  the  truth." 

"  I  will  not  stand  to  be  insulted  by  any  one !"  was  the 
young  man's  angry  reply,  as  he  turned  suddenly  away 
from  his  aged  friend,  and  entered  the  drinking-house.  He 
did  not  go  up  at  once  to  the  bar,  as  had  been  his  habit, 
but  threw  himself  down  upon  one  of  the  lounges,  took  up 
a  newspaper,  and  commenced,  or  rather,  appeared  to 
commence  reading,  though  he  did  not,  in  fact,  see  a 
letter. 

"What  will  you  have,  Mr.  Barclay  ?"  asked  an  offici 
ous  attendant,  coming  up,  a  few  moments  after  he  had 
entered. 

"  Nothing  just  now,"  was  the  reply,  made  in  a  low  tone, 
while  his  eyes  were  not  lifted  from  the  newspaper.  No 
very  pleasant  reflections  were  those  that  passed  through 
his  mind  as  he  sat  there.  At  last  he  rose  up  quickly,  as 
if  a  resolution  had  been  suddenly  formed,  and  left  the 
place  where  clustered  so  many  temptations,  with  a  hurri 
ed  step. 

"  I  want  you  to  administer  an  oath,"  he  said,  entering 
the  office  of  an  Alderman,  a  few  minutes  after. 

"  Very  well,  sir.     I  am  ready,"  replied  the  Alderman. 

"  What  is  its  nature  ?" 

14 


112  SWEARING     OFF. 

"  I  will  give  you  the  form." 
"Well?" 

"I,  John  Barclay,  do  solemnly  swear,  that  for  six 
months  from  this  hour,  I  will  not  taste  a  drop  of  any 
kind  of  liquor  that  intoxicates." 

"  I  wouldn't  take  that  oath,  young  man,"  the  Alderman 
said. 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  had  better  go  and  join  a  temperance  society 
Signing  the  pledge  will  be  of  as  much  avail." 

"N0  —  I  will  not  sign  a  pledge  never  to  drink  again. 
I  'm  not  going  to  make  a  mere  slave  of  myself.  I  '11 
swear  off  for  six  months." 

"  Why  not  swear  off  perpetually,  then  1" 

"Because,  as  I  said,  I  am  not  going  to  make  a  slave 
of  myself.  Six  months  of  total-abstinence  will  give  me 
a  control  over  myself  that  I  do  not  now  possess." 

"  I  very  much  fear,  sir,"  urged  the  Alderman,  notwith 
standing  he  perceived  that  the  young  man  was  growing 
impatient — "  and  you  must  pardon  my  freedom  in  saying 
so,  that  you  will  find  yourself  in  error.  If  you  are  already 
so  much  the  slave  of  drink  as  to  feel  yourself  compelled 
to  have  recourse  to  the  solemnities  of  an  oath  to  break 
away  from  its  bewitching  power,  depend  upon  it,  that  no 
temporary  expedient  of  this  kind  will  be  of  any  avail. 
You  will,  no  doubt,  keep  your  oath  religiously,  but  when 
its  influence  is  withdrawn,  you  will  find  the  strength  of 
an  unsupported  resolution  as  weak  as  ever." 

"  I  do  not  believe  the  position  you  take  to  be  a  true 
one,"  argued  young  Barclay  —  "  All  I  want  is  to  get  rid 
of  present  temptation,  and  to  be  freed  from  present  asso 
ciations.  Six  months  will  place  me  beyond  the  reach  of 
these,  and  then  I  shall  be  able  to  do  right  from  an  internal 
principle,  and  not  from  mere  external  restraint." 

"  I  see  the  view  you  take,  and  would  not  urge  a  word 
against  it,  did  I  not  know  so  many  instances  of  individuals 
who  have  vainly  opposed  their  resolutions  against  the 
power  of  habit.  When  once  an  appetite  for  intoxicating 
drinks  has  been  formed,  there  is  only  one  way  of  safety — 
that  of  taking  a  perpetual  pledge  of  total-abstinence. 
That,  and  that  alone  is  the  wall  of  sure  protection. 


SWEARING     OFF.  113 

Without  it,  you  are  exposed  to  temptations  on  every  hand. 
The  manly  and  determined  effort  to  be  free  will  not 
always  avail.  In  some  weak  and  unsuspecting  moment, 
the  tempter  will  steal  quietly  in,  and  all  will  be  again 
lost." 

"  It  is  useless,  sir,  to  argue  the  point  with  me,"  Barclay 
replied  to  this.  "  I  will  not  now  take  the  pledge — that  is 
settled.  I  will  take  an  oath  of  abstinence  for  six  months. 
If  I  can  keep  to  it  that  long,  I  can  keep  from  drinking 
always." 

Seeing  that  further  argument  would  be  useless,  the 
Alderman  said  no  more,  but  proceeded  to  administer  the 
oath.  The  young  man  then  paid  the  required  fee  and 
turned  from  the  office  in  silence. 

When  Alice  left  the  room  in  tears,  stung  by  the  cutting 
rebuke  of  her  brother,  she  retired  to  her  chamber  with  an 
oppressed  and  aching  heart.  She  loved  him  tenderly. 
They  were,  sister  and  brother,  alone  in  the  world,  and, 
therefore,  her  affections  clung  the  closer  to  him.  The 
struggle  had  been  a  hard  one  in  bringing  herself  to  per 
form  the  duty  which  had  called  down  upon  her  the  anger 
of  one  for  whom  she  would  almost  have  given  her  life ; 
and,  therefore,  the  result  was  doubly  painful,  more  par 
ticularly,  as  it  had  effected  nothing,  apparently,  towards  a 
change  in  his  habits. 

"  But  perhaps  it  will  cause  him  to  reflect. — If  so,  I  will 
cheerfully  bear  his  anger,"  was  the  consoling  thought  that 
passed  through  her  mind,  after  the  passage  of  an  hour, 
spent  under  the  influence  of  most  painful  feelings. 

"  O,  if  he  will  only  be  more  on  his  guard,"  she  went 
on,  in  thought  —  "  if  he  will  only  give  up  that  habit,  how 
glad  I  should  be !" 

Just  then  she  heard  him  enter,  and  marked  the  sound 
of  his  footsteps  as  he  ascended  to  his  own  room,  with  a 
fluttering  heart.  In  the  course  of  fifteen  or  twenty 
minutes,  he  went  down  again,  and  she  listened  to  observe 
if  he  were  going  out.  But  he  entered  the  parlours,  and 
then  all  was,  again,  quiet. 

For  some  time  Alice  debated  with  herself  whether  she 
should  go  down  to  him  or  not,  and  make  the  effort  to 
dispel  the  anger  that  she  had  aroused  against  her;  but 
she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  how  to  act,  for  she  could 


114  SWEARING     OFF. 

not  tell  in  what  mood  she  might  find  him.  One  repulse 
was  as  much,  she  felt,  as  she  could  bear.  At  last,  how 
ever,  her  feelings  became  so  wrought  up,  that  she  deter 
mined  to  go  down  and  seek  to  be  reconciled.  Her  bro 
ther's  anger  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 

When  she  entered  the  parlours,  with  her  usual  quiet 
step,  she  found  him  seated  near  the  window,  reading. 
He  lifted  his  head  as  she  came  in,  and  she  saw  at  a  glance 
that  all  his  angry  feelings  were  gone.  How  lightly  did 
her  heart  bound  as  she  sprang  forward  ! 

"  Will  you  forgive  me,  brother  ?"  she  said,  laying  her 
hand  upon  his  shoulder  as  she  stood  by  his  side,  and  bent 
her  face  down  until  her  fair  cheek  almost  touched  his 
own. 

"  Rather  let  me  say,  will  you  forgive  me,  sister  ?"  was 
his  reply,  as  he  kissed  her  affectionately — "  for  the  unkind 
repulse  I  gave  you,  when  to  say  what  you  did  must  have 
caused  you  a  most  painful  sacrifice  of  feeling  ?" 

"  Painful  indeed  it  was,  brother.  But  it  is  past  now — 
and  all  forgiven." 

"Since  then,  Alice,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "I  have 
taken  a  solemn  oath,  administered  by  an  Alderman,  not 
to  touch  any  kind  of  intoxicating  drink  for  six  months." 

"  O,  I  am  so  glad,  John !"  the  sister  said,  a  joyful  smile 
lighting  up  her  beautiful  young  face.  "But  why  did  you 
say  six  months  ?  Why  not  for  life  ?" 

"  Because,  Alice,  I  do  not  wish  to  bind  myself  down  to 
a  kind  of  perpetual  slavery.  I  wish  to  be  free,  and  act 
right  in  freedom  from  a  true  principle  of  right.  Six 
months  of  entire  abstinence  from  all  kinds  of  liquor  will 
destroy  that  appetite  for  it  which  has  caused  me,  of  late, 
to  seek  it  far  too  often.  And  then  I  will,  as  a  free  man, 
remain  free." 

"I  shall  now  be  so  happy  again,  John!"  Alice  said, 
fully  satisfied  with  her  brother's  reason. 

"  So  you  have  not  been  happy  then  of  late  1" 

11 0,  no,  brother.     Far  from  it." 

"  And  has  the  fact  of  my  using  wine  so  freely  been  the 
cause  of  your  unhappiness  ?" 

"  Solely." 

"  Its  effects  upon  me  have  not  been  so  visible  as  often 
to  attract  your  attention,  Alice  ?" 


SWEARING     OFF.  115 

"O,  yes,  they  have.  Scarcely  a  day  has  gone  by  for 
three  or  four  months  past,  that  I  could  not  see  that  your 
mind  was  obscured,  and  often  your  actions  sensibly  af 
fected." 

"I  did  not  dream  that  it  was  so,  Alice." 

"  Are  you  not  sensible,  that  at  Mr.  Weston's,  last  night 
you  were  by  no  means  yourself?" 

"  Yes,  Alice,  I  am  sensible  of  that,  and  deeply  has  it 
mortified  me.  I  was  suffering  acutely  from  the  recollec 
tion  of  the  exposure  which  I  made  of  myself  on  that 
occasion,  especially  before  Helen,  when  you  alluded  to 
the  subject.  That  was  the  reason  that  1  could  not  bear 
your  allusion  to  it.  But  tell  me,  Alice,  did  you  perceive 
that  my  situation  attracted  Helen's  attention  particu 
larly  ?" 

"  Yes.  She  noticed,  evidently,  that  you  were  not  as 
you  ought  to  have  been." 

"How  did  it  affect  her,  Alice?"  asked  the  young  man. 

"  She  seemed  much  pained,  and,  I  thought,  mortified." 

"  Mortified  1" 

"  Yes." 

A  pause  of  some  moments  ensued,  when  Barclay  ask 
ed,  in  a  tone  of  interest, 

"Do  you  think  it  has  prejudiced  her  against  me?" 

"  It  has  evidently  pained  her  very  much,  but  I  do  not 
think  that  it  has  created  in  her  mind  any  prejudice  against 
you." 

"  From  what  do  you  infer  this,  Alice  ?" 

"  From  the  fact,  that,  while  we  were  alone  in  her  cham 
ber,  on  my  going  up  stairs  to  put  on  my  bonnet  and  shawl, 
she  said  to  me,  and  her  eyes  were  moist  as  well  as  my 
own,  '  Alice,  you  ought  to  speak  to  your  brother,  and 
caution  him  against  this  free  indulgence  in  wine ;  it  may 
grow  on  him,  unawares.  If  he  were  as  near  to  me  as  he 
is  to  you,  I  should  not  feel  that  my  conscience  was  clear 
unless  I  warned  him  of  his  danger.'  " 

"Did  she  say  that,  sister?" 

"  Yes,  those  were  her  very  words." 

"  And  you  did  warn  me,  faithfully." 

"  Yes.  But  the  task  is  one  I  pray  that  I  may  never 
again  have  to  perform." 


116  SWEARING     OFF. 

"  Amen,"  was  the  fervent  response. 

"How  do  you  like  Helen?"  the  young  man  asked,  in  a 
livelier  tone,  after  a  silence  of  nearly  a  minute. 

"  I  have  always  been  attached  to  her,  John.  You  know 
that  we  have  been  together  since  we  were  little  girls, 
until  now  we  seem  almost  like  sisters." 

"  And  a  sister,  truly,  I  hope  she  may  one  day  become," 
the  brother  said,  with  a  meaning  smile. 

"  Most  affectionately  will  I  receive  her  as  such,"  was 
the  reply  of  Alice.  "  Than  Helen  Weston,  there  is  no 
one  whom  I  had  rather  see  the  wife  of  my  dear  bro 
ther." 

As  she  said  this,  she  drew  her  arm  around  his  neck, 
and  kissed  him  affectionately. 

"It  shall  not  be  my  fault,  then,  Alice,  if  she  do  not 
become  your  sister — "  was  the  brother's  response. 

Rigidly  true  to  his  pledge,  John  Barclay  soon  gained 
the  honourable  estimation  in  the  social  circle  through 
which  he  moved,  that  he  had  held,  before  wine,  the 
mocker,  had  seduced  him  from  the  ways  of  true  sobriety, 
and  caused  even  his  best  friends  to  regard  him  with 
changed  feelings.  Possessing  a  competence,  which  a 
father's  patient  industry  had  accumulated,  he  had  not, 
hitherto,  thought  of  entering  upon  any  business.  Now, 
however,  he  began  to  see  the  propriety  of  doing  so,  and 
as  he  had  plenty  of  capital,  he  proposed  to  a  young  man 
of  industrious  habits  and  thorough  knowledge  of  business 
to  enter  into  a  co-partnership  with  him.  This  offer  was 
accepted,  and  the  two  young  men  commenced  the  world 
with  the  fairest  prospects. 

Three  months  from  the  day  on  which  John  Barclay 
had  mentioned  to  his  sister  that  he  entertained  a  regard 
for  Keren  Weston,  he  made  proposals  of  marriage  to  that 
young  lady,  which  were  accepted. 

"But  how  in  regard  to  his  pledge?"  I  hear  some  one 
ask. 

O,  as  to  that,  it  was  kept,  rigidly.  Nothing  that  could 
intoxicate  was  allowed  to  touch  his  lips.  Of  course,  he 
was  at  first  frequently  asked  to  drink  by  his  associates, 
but  his  reply  to  all  importunities  was — 

"  No — I  have  sworn  off  for  six  months." 

"  So  you  have  said  for  the  last  six  months,"  remarked 


SWEARING     OFF.  117 

a  young  man,  named  Watson,  one  day,  on  his  reiusing 
for  the  twentieth  time  to  drink  with  him. 

"  Not  for  six  months,  Watson.  It  is  only  three  months 
this  very  day  since  I  swore  off'." 

"  Well,  it  seems  to  me  like  six  months,  anyhow.  But 
do  you  think  that  you  feel  any  better  for  all  this  total- 
abstinence  ?' 

"  O,  as  to  that,  I  don't  know  that  I  feel  such  a  wonder 
ful  difference  in  body ;  but  in  mind  I  certainly  do  feel  a 
great  deal  better." 

"  How  so  ?" 

"  While  I  drank,  I  was  conscious  that  I  was  beginning 
to  be  too  fond  of  drinking,  and  was  too  often  painfully 
conscious  that  I  had  taken  too  much.  Now,  I  am,  of 
course,  relieved  from  all  such  unpleasant  feelings." 

"  Well,  that 's  something,  at  least.  But  I  never  saw 
you  out  of  the  way." 

"  Do  you  know  the  reason,  Watson  ?" 

"No." 

"  I  '11  tell  you.  You  were  always  too  far  gone  your 
self,  when  we  drank  freely  together,  to  perceive  my  con 
dition." 

"  So  you  say." 

"  It 's  true." 

"  Well,  have  it  as  you  like.  But,  see  here,  John,  what 
are  you  going  to  do  when  your  six  months  are  out  ?' 

"  I  'm  going  to  be  a  sober  man,  as  I  am  now." 

"  You  never  were  a  drunkard." 
"  "  I  was  precious  near  being  one,  then." 

"  Nonsense  !  That 's  all  some  old  woman's  notion  of 
yours." 

"  Well,  be  that  as  it  may,  I  certainly  intend  continuing 
to  be  as  sober  a  man  as  I  have  been  for  the  last  three 
months." 

"  Won't  you  drink  a  drop  after  your  time  is  up  ?" 

"  That  '11  be  just  as  I  choose.  I  will  drink  or  let  it 
alone,  as  I  like.  I  shall  then  be  free  to  drink  moderately, 
or  not  at  all,  as  seems  agreeable  to  me." 

"  That  is  a  little  more  sensible  than  your  perpetual 
total-abstinence,  teetotal,  cold-water  system.  Who  would 
be  such  a  miserable  slave?  I  would  rather  die  drunk  in 
the  gutter,  than  throw  away  my  liberty." 


118  SWEARING     OFF. 

"  I  believe  I  have  said  as  much  myself." 

"  Don't  you  feel  a  desire  to  have  a  good  glass  of  wine 
or  a  julep,  now  and  then  ?" 

"No,  not  the  slightest.  I've  sworn  off  for  six  months^ 
and  that  ends  the  matter.  Of  course,  I  have  no  more 
desire  for  a  glass  of  liquor  than  I  have  to  fly  to  the  moon, 
— one  is  a  moral,  and  the  other  a  physical  impossibility; 
and,  therefore,  are  dismissed  from  my  thoughts." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  moral  impossibility  ?" 

"  I  have  taken  an  oath  not  to  drink  for  six  months,  and 
the  violation  of  that  oath  is,  for  one  of  my  views  and 
feelings,  a  moral  impossibility." 

"Exactly.  There  are  three  months  yet  to  run,  you 
say.  After  that,  I  hope  to  have  the  pleasure  of  taking 
a  glass  of  wine  with  you  in  honour  of  your  restoration  to 
a  state  of  freedom." 

"  You  shall  have  that  pleasure,  Watson,  if  it  will  really 
be  one — "  was  Barclay's  reply,  as  the  two  young  men 
parted. 

Time  wore  on,  and  John  Barclay,  besides  continuing 
perfectly  sober,  gave  constant  attention  to  business.  So 
complete  a  change  in  him  gave  confidence  to  the  parents 
and  friends  of  Helen  Weston,  who  made  no  opposition  to 
his  wish  for  an  early  marriage.  It  was  fixed  to  take 
place  on  the  evening  of  the  very  day  upon  which  his  tem 
porary  pledge  was  to  expire. 

To  the  expiration  of  this  pledge,  Barclay  had  never 
ceased,  from  the  moment  it  was  taken,  to  look  forward 
with  a  lively  interest.  Not  that  he  felt  a  desire  to  drink. 
But  he  suffered  himself  to  be  worried  with  the  idea  that 
he  was  no  longer  a  free  man.  The  nearer  the  day  came 
that  was  to  terminate  the  period  for  which  he  had  bound 
himself  to  abstinence,  the  more  did  his  mind  dwell  upon 
it,  and  the  more  did  he  desire  its  approach.  It  was,  like 
wise,  to  be  his  wedding-day,  and  for  that  reason,  also,  did 
he  look  eagerly  forward.  But  it  is  doubtful  whether  the 
consummation  of  his  marriage,  or  the  expiration  of  his 
pledge,  occupied  most  of  his  thoughts. 

The  day  so  long  looked  for  came  at  last.  The  day 
that  was  to  make  Barclay  a  free  man,  and  happy  in  the 
possession  of  one  of  the  sweetest  girls  for  a  wife  he  had 
ever  seen. 


SWEARING     OFF. 

"1  shall  not  see  you  again,  until  to-night,  John,"  his 
sister  said  to  him,  as  he  was  about  leaving  the  house, 
after  dinner,  laying  her  hand  as  she  spoke  upon  his  arm, 
and  looking  into  his  face  with  a  quiet  smile  resting  upon 
her  own  lovely  features. — "  I  have  promised  Helen  to  go 
over  and  spend  the  afternoon  with  her." 

"  Very  well,  sis'." 

"  Of  course  we  shall  see  you  pretty  early," —  an  arch 
smile  playing  about  her  lips  as  she  made  the  remark. 

"  O,  yes,  I  shall  be  there  in  time,"  was  the  brother's 
smiling  reply,  as  he  kissed  the  cheek  of  Alice,  and  then 
turned  away  and  left  the  house.  He  first  proceeded  to 
his  store,  where  he  went  through,  hurriedly,  some  busi 
ness  that  required  his  attention,  occupying  something  like 
an  hour.  Then  he  went  out,  and  walked  rapidly  up  one 
of  the  principal  streets  of  the  city,  and  down  another,  as 
if  on  some  urgent  errand.  Without  stopping  anywhere, 
he  had  nearly  returned  to  his  own  store,  when  he  was 
stopped  by  a  friend,  who  accosted  him  with — 

"  Hallo,  John  !  Where  are  you  going  in  such  a  hurry  1" 

"  I  am  on  my  way  to  the  store." 

"  Any  life  and  death  in  the  case  ?" 

"  No.  —  Only  I  'm  to  be  married  to-night,  as  you  are 
aware;  and,  consequently,  am  hardly  able  to  tell  whether 
I  am  on  my  head  or  my  heels." 

"  True  enough !  And  besides,  you  are  a  free  man  to 
day,  are  you  not  1" 

"  Yes,  Watson,  thank  Heaven !  that  trammel  will  be 
off  in  half  an  hour." 

"  You  must  be  fond  of  trammels,  John,  seeing  that  you 
are  going  to  put  another  on  so  soon  after  getting  rid  of 
this — "  the  friend  said,  laughing  heartily  at  his  jest. 

"  That  will  be  a  lighter,  and  far  pleasanter  bondage  I 
trust,  Watson,  than  the  one  from  which  I  am  about 
escaping.  It  will  be  an  easy  yoke  compared  to  the  gall 
ing  one  under  which  I  have  toiled  for  the  last  six  months. 
Still,  I  do  not  regret  having  bound  myself  as  I  did.  It 
was  necessary  to  give  me  that  self-control  which  I  had 
well-nigh  lost.  Now  I  shall  be  able  to  act  like  a  rational 
man,  and  be  temperate  from  principle,  and  not  from  a 
mere  external  restraint  that  made  me  little  better  than  a 
machine." 


120  SWEARING     OFF. 

"  Your  time  will  be  up,  you  say,  in  half  an  hour  ?" 

«  Yes — "  looking  at  his  watch — "  in  ten  minutes.  It  is 
later  than  I  thought." 

"  Come,  then,  let  us  go  over  to  R 's  —  it  is  full  ten 

minutes'  walk  from  here — and  take  a  drink  to  freedom  and 
principle." 

"lam  ready  to  join  you,  of  course,"  was  Barclay's 
prompt  reply,  as  he  drew  his  arm  within  that  of  his  friend, 
and  the  two  turned  their  steps  towards  the  drinking  estab 
lishment  that  had  been  named  by  the  latter. 

"  A  room,  a  bottle  of  sherry,  and  some  cigars,"  said 
Watson,  as  they  entered  the  drinking-house,  and  went 
up  to  the  bar. 

In  a  few  minutes  after,  they  were  alone,  with  wine  anr 
glasses  before  them. 

"Here's  to  freedom  and  principle!"  said  Watson,  lift 
ing  his  glass,  after  having  filled  his  own  and  Barclay's. 

"  And  here 's  to  the  same  high  moral  atributes  which 
should  ever  be  man's  distinguishing  characteristics,"  re 
sponded  Barclay,  lifting  his  own  glass,  and  touching  with 
it  the  brim  of  that  held  in  the  hand  of  his  friend.  Both 
then  emptied  their  glasses  at  a  draught. 

"  Really,  that  is  delicious !"  Barclay  said,  smacking  his 
lips,  as  the  rich  flavour  of  the  wine  lingered  on  his  palate 
with  a  sensation  of  exquisite  delight. 

"  It 's  a  pretty  fair  article,"  was  the  indifferent  reply  of 
Watson — "  though  I  have  tasted  better  in  my  time.  Long 
abstinence  has  made  its  flavour  peculiarly  pleasant.  Here, 
let  me  fill  your  glass  again." 

Without  hesitating,  Barclay  presented  his  glass,  which 
was  again  filled  to  the  brim.  In  the  next  moment  it  was 
empty.  So  eager  was  he  to  get  it  to  his  lips,  that  he  even 
spilled  a  portion  of  the  wine  in  lifting  it  hurriedly.  Sud 
denly  his  old,  and  as  he  had  thought,  extinguished' desires, 
came  back  upon  him,  roused  into  vigorous  activity,  like  a 
giant  awakening  refreshed  by  a  long  repose.  So  keen  was 
his  appetite  for  wine,  and  stimulating  drinks,  thus  sudden 
ly  restored,  that  he  could  no  more  have  withstood  its 
influence  than  he  could  have  borne  up  against  the  current 
of  a  mighty  river. 

"Help  yourself,"  said  his  friend,  ere  another  minute 
had  elapsed,  as  Barclay  took  up  the  bottle  to  fill  his  glass 


SWEARING     OFF.  121 

for  the  third  time.    "  Long-abstinence  has  no  doubt  made 
you  keen." 

"It  certainly  has,  or  else  this  is  the  finest  article  of 
wine  that  has  ever  passed  my  lips." 

"It's  not  the  best  quality  by  a  good  deal;  still  it  is 
pretty  fair.  But  won't  you  try  a  mint-julep,  or  a  punch, 
by  way  of  variety  ?" 

"  No  objection,"  was  the  brief  response. 

"  Which  will  you  choose  1" 

"I'll  take  a  julep." 

"  Two  juleps,"  said  Watson  to  the  waiter  who  entered 
immediately  afterwards. 

The  juleps  were  soon  ready,  each  furnished  with  a  long 
straw. 

"  Delicious !"  was  Barclay's  low,  and  delighted  ejacula 
tion,  as  he  bent  to  the  table,  and  "  imbibed"  through  the 
straw  a  portion  of  the  liquid. 

"  Our   friend  R understands   his  business,"   was 

Watson's  brief  reply. 

A  silence  of  some  moments  ensued,  during  which  a 
painful  consciousness  of  danger  rushed  through  the  mind 
of  Barclay.  But  with  an  effort  he  dismissed  it.  He  did 
not  intend  to  drink  beyond  the  bounds  of  moderation,  and 
why  should  he  permit  his  mind  to  be  disturbed  by  idle 
fears?  ***** 

"  It  is  time  that  brother  was  here,"  Alice  said  to  Helen 
Weston,  as  the  two  maidens  sat  alone,  near  a  window  in 
Helen's  chamber,  the  evening  twilight  falling  gently  and 
with  a  soothing  influence. 

"  Yes.  I  expected  him  earlier,"  was  the  reply,  in  a 
low  tone,  while  Helen's  bosom  heaved  with  a  new,  and 
exquisitely  pleasurable  emotion.  "  What  can  keep  him  ?" 

"  He  is  lingering  at  his  toilet,  perhaps,"  Alice  said,  with 
a  smile. 

All  was  silent  again  for  many  minutes,  each  gentle  and 
innocent  heart,  busy  with  images  of  delight. 

"  It 's  strange  that  he  does  not  come,  Alice,  or  sister,  as 
I  must  call  you,"  Helen  remarked,  in  a  graver  tone,  as 
the  shadowy  twilight  deepened  until  everything  wore  a 
veil  of  indistinctness. 

"There!  That  must  be  him!"  Alice  said.  "Hark! 
That  is  certainly  his  voice !  Yes  —  And  he  is  coming 


122  SWEARING     OFF. 

right  up  to  your  room,  as  I  live,  as  boldly  as  if  the  house 
belonged  to  him." 

While  Alice  was  yet  speaking,  the  door  of  the  cham 
ber  in  which  they  sat  was  swung  open  with  a  rude  hand, 
and  her  brother  entered.  His  face  was  flushed,  and  his 
•whole  person  in  disorder. 

"  Why,  brother  !  what  has  kept ,"  but  the   sister 

could  utter  no  more.  Her  tongue  was  paralyzed,  and  she 
stood,  statue-like,  gazing  upon  him  with  a  look  of  horror. 
He  was  intoxicated!  It  was  his  wedding-night,  a  portion 
of  the  company  below,  and  the  gentle,  affectionate  maiden 
who  was  to  become  his  bride,  all  attired  and  waiting,  and 
he  had  come  intoxicated  ! 

Poor  Helen's  bewildered  senses  could  not  at  first  fully 
comprehend  the  scene.  When  she  did  realize  the  terrible 
truth,  the  shock  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 

Over  the  whole  scene  of  pain,  disorder,  and  confusion, 
that  transpired  on  that  evening,  we  must  draw  a  veil. 
Any  reader  of  even  ordinary  imagination  can  realize 
enough  of  the  exquisite  distress  which  it  must  have 
brought  to  many  hearts,  without  the  aid  of  distinct  pic 
tures.  And  those  who  cannot  realize  it,  will  be  spared 
the  pain  of  its  contemplation. 

One  week  from  that  night,  at  about  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  as  old  Mr.  Gray  was  passing  along  one  of  the 
principal  streets  of  the  city  where  the  occurrences  we 
are  relating  took  place,  a  young  man  staggered  against 
him,  and  then  fell  at  full  length  upon  the  pavement,  from 
whence  he  rolled  into  the  gutter,  swollen  by  a  smart 
shower  that  had  just  fallen.  Too  drunk  to  help  himself, 
he  must  have  been  drowned  even  in  that  insignificant 
stream,  had  there  not  been  help  at  hand. 

Mr.  Gray  came  at  once  to  his  relief,  and  assisted  him 
to  rise  and  get  upon  the  pavement.  But  now  he  was 
unable  to  stand.  Either  hurt  by  the  fall,  or  unnerved  by 
the  liquor  he  had  taken,  he  was  no  longer  able  to  keep 
his  feet.  While  Mr.  Gray  stood  holding  him  up,  unde 
termined  how  to  act,  another  young  man,  not  quite  so 
drunk  as  the  one  he  had  in  charge,  came  whooping  along 
like  an  Indian. 

"  Hallo  !  Is  this  you,  John,  holding  up  old  Mr.  Gray? — 
or  is  it  old  Mr.  Gray  holding  you  up!  [hiccup.]  Blast  me ! 


SWEARING     OFF.  123 

if  I  can  tell  which  of  you  is  drunk,  or  which  sober.  Let 
me  see  ?  hic-hic-cup.  Was  it  the  Whale  that  swallowed 
Jonah,  or  Jonah  the  Whale  1  Is  it  old  Mr.  Gray — hic-cup — 
that  is  drunk,  or  John  Barclay  ?" 

"John  Barclay!"  ejaculated  the  old  man,  in  a  tone  of 
surprise  and  grief.  "  Surely  this  wretched  young  man  is 
not  John  Barclay !" 

"  If  he  is  not  John  Barclay,  then  I  am  not  —  hic-cup  — 
not  Tom  Watson.  He 's  a  bird,  though !  aint  he,  old 
gentleman? — hic-cup — Look  here,  I'll  give  you  five  dol 
lars, — hic-cup — if  you'll  stop  these, — hie — these  confound 
ed  hic-hic-hic-cups — There  now — There  's  a  chance  for 
you ! — hie — blast  'em  !  He  swore  off  for  six  months,  ha ! 
ha  !  ha  !  And  it 's  just,  —  hie — just  a  week  to-night  since 
the  six  months  were  up.  Hurrah  for  freedom  and  prin 
ciple  !  Hur — hie — hurrah !" 

"  Thomas  Watson ! " 

"  Don't  come  your  preaching  touch  over  me,  mister,  if 
you  please.  I  'm  free  Tom  Watson, — hic-hic-hic-cup  — 
I  'm  — hie  —  I  'm  a  regular  team  —  whoop  !  John,  there, 
you  see,  would  drink  to  freedom  and  principle, — hic-cup — 
on  the — hie — day  his  pledge  was  up.  But  the  old  fellow 
was  —  hie  —  too  strong — hic-cup — for  him.  He's  been 
drunk  as  a  fool  ever  since — hic-cup ! " 

Just  at  that  moment  a  cab  came  by  which  was  stop 
ped  by  the  old  man.  Young  Barclay  was  gotten  into 
it  and  driven  to  Mr.  Gray's  dwelling.  When  brought  to 
the  light,  he  presented  a  sad  spectacle,  indeed.  His  face 
was  swollen,  and  every  feature  distorted.  His  coat  was 
torn,  and  all  of  his  clothing  wet  and  covered  with  mud. 
Too  far  gone  to  be  able  to  help  himself,  Mr.  Gray  had 
him  removed  to  a  chamber,  his  wet  garments  taken  off, 
and  replaced  by  dry  under-clothing.  Then  he  was  put 
into  a  bed  and  left  for  the  night. 

When  the  morning  broke,  Barclay  was  perfectly  sober, 
but  with  a  mind  altogether  bewildered.  The  room  in 
which  he  found  himself,  and  the  furniture,  were  all  strange. 
He  got  up;  and  looked  from  the  window ;  the  houses  oppo 
site  were  unfamiliar. 

"  Where  ami?  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?"  he 
said,  half-aloud,  as  he  turned  to  look  for  his  clothes.  But 


124  SWEARING    OFF. 

no  garments  of  any  kind,  not  even  his  hat  and  boots, 
were  visible. 

"  Strange !"  he  murmured,  getting  into  bed  again,  and 
clasping  his  hands  tightly  upon  his  aching  and  bewildered 
head.  He  had  Iain,  thus,  for  some  minutes,  trying  to  col 
lect  his  scattered  senses,  when  the  door  of  his  chamber 
was  opened  by  a  servant,  who  brought  him  in  a  full  suit 
of  his  own  clothes;  not,  however,  those  he  remembered 
to  have  worn  the  day  previous. 

As  soon  as  the  servant  had  withdrawn,  the  young  man, 
who  had  felt  altogether  disinclined  to  speak  to  him,  hur 
riedly  arose,  and  dressed  himself.  On  attempting  to  go 
out,  he  was  surprised,  and  somewhat  angered,  to  find  that 
the  door  of  the  room  had  been  locked. 

Ringing  the  bell  with  a  quick  jerk,  he  awaited,  im 
patiently,  an  answer  to  his  summons,  for  the  space  of 
about  a  minute,  when  he  pulled  the  cord  again  with  a 
stronger  hand.  Only  a  few  moments  more  elapsed,  when 
the  key  was  turned  in  the  door,  and  Mr.  Gray  entered. 

"  Mr.  Gray !  Is  it  possible  !"  Barclay  ejaculated,  as  the 
old  man  stepped  into  the  room,  and  closed  the  door  after 
him. 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  it  possible,  John,"  his  father's 
friend  said,  as  he  turned  towards  him  a  sad,  yet  unre- 
proving  countenance. 

"  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this,  Mr.  Gray  ?  Where 
am  1 1  And  how  came  I  here  ?" 

"  Sit  down,  John,  and  be  calm.  You  are  in  my  house. 
Last  night  I  took  you  from  the  gutter,  too  much  intoxi 
cated  to  help  yourself.  You  would  have  drowned  there, 
in  three  inches  of  water,  had  not  a  friendly  hand  been 
near  to  save  you." 

"  Dreadful !"  ejaculated  the  young  man,  striking  his 
hand  hard  against  his  forehead,  while  an  expression  of 
shame  and  agonizing  remorse  passed  over  his  face. 

"  It  is,  indeed,  dreadful  to  think  of,  my  young  friend !" 
Mr.  Gray  remarked,  in  a  sympathizing  tone.  "  How 
wretched  you  must  be  !" 

"  Wretched  ?  Alas !  sir,  you  cannot  imagine  the  horror 
of  this  dreadful  moment.  Surely  I  have  been  mad  for 
the  past  few  days !  And  enough  has  occurred  to  drive 
me  mad. ' 


SWEARING     OFF.  125 

"  So  I  should  think,  John.  But  that  is  past  now,  and 
the  future  is  still  yours,  and  its  bright  page  still  unsullied 
by  a  single  act  of  folly." 

"  But  the  past !  The  dreadful  past !  That  can  never  be 
recalled — never  be  atoned  for,"  Barclay  replied,  his  'coun 
tenance  bearing  the  strongest  expression  of  anguish  and 
remorse.  "  To  think  of  all  I  have  lost !  To  think  how 
cruelly  I  have  mocked  the  fondest  hopes,  and  crushed  the 
purest  affections  —  perhaps  broken  a  loving  heart  by  my 
folly.  O,  sir  !  It  will  drive  me  mad !" 

As  the  young  man  said  this,  he  arose  to  his  feet,  and 
commenced  pacing  the  room  to  and  fro  with  agitated 
steps.  Now  striking  his  hands  against  his  forehead,  and 
now  wringing  them  violently. 

"  Since  that  accursed  hour,"  he  resumed,  after  a  few 
minutes  thus  spent,  "  when  I  madly  tempted  myself,  under 
the  belief  that  I  had  gained  the  mastery  over  a  depraved 
appetite  by  an  abstinence  from  all  kinds  of  liquor  for  six 
months,  I  have  but  a  dim  recollection  of  events.  I  do, 
indeed,  remember,  with  tolerable  distinctness,  that  I  went 
to  claim  the  hand  of  Helen  Weston,  according  to  appoint 
ment.  But  from  the  moment  I  entered  the  house,  all  is 
to  me  confusion,  or  a  dead  blank.  Tell  me,  then,  Mr. 
Gray," — and  the  young  man's  voice  grew  calmer, — "  the 
effect  of  my  miserable  conduct  upon  her  whom  I  loved 
purely  and  tenderly.  Let  me  know  all.  I  ask  no  dis 
guise." 

"  The  effect,  John,  has  been  painful,  indeed.  Since 
that  dreadful  night,  she  has  remained  in  a  state  of  partial 
delirium.  But  her  physician  told  me,  yesterday,  that  all 
of  her  symptoms  had  become  more  favourable." 

"  And  how  is  her  father,  and  friends  ?" 

"  Deeply  incensed,  of  course,  at  your  conduct." 

"  And  my  sister  ?    How  is  Alice  1" 

"  She  keeps  up  with  an  effort.  But  oh,  how  wretched 
and  broken-hearted  she  looks !  Is  it  not  dreadful,  John,  to 
think,  how,  by  a  single  act  of  folly,  you  have  lacerated 
the  hearts  that  loved  you  most,  and  imposed  upon  them 
burdens  of  anguish,  almost  too  heavy  to  be  borne  ?" 

"  It  is  dreadful !  dreadful !  O,  that  I  had  died,  before  I 
became  an  accursed  instrument  of  evil  to  those  I  love ' 


126  SWEARING     OFF. 

But  what  can  I  do,  Mr.  Gray,  to  atone,  in  some  degree, 
for  the  misery  I  have  wrought?" 

"  You  can  do  much,  John,  if  you  will." 

"If  I  will,  Mr.  Gray?" 

"  Yes,  John,  if  you  will." 

"There  is  nothing  that  I  am  not  ready  to  do,  Mr. 
Gray — even  the  cutting  off  of  my  right  hand,  could  it  be 
of  any  avail." 

"  Y'ou  swore  off,  as  I  believe  you  called  it,  for  six 
months,  did  you  not?" 

«  Yes." 

"  Had  you  any  desire  to  drink,  during  that  time  ?" 

"  None." 

"  Sign  a  pledge  of  perpetual  total-abstinence,  and  you 
are  safe  from  all  future  temptations.  Time  will  doubtless 
heal  the  present  painful  wounds." 

"And  make  a  slave  of  myself,  Mr.  Gray.  Surely  I 
ought  to  have  power  enough  over  myself  to  abstain  from 
all  intoxicating  drinks,  without  binding  myself  down  by  a 
written  contract." 

"  That  is  true ;  but,  unfortunately,  you  have  not  that 
control  over  yourself.  Your  only  safety,  then,  lies  in  the 
pledge.  Take  that,  and  you  throw  between  yourself  and 
danger  an  insurmountable  barrier.  You  talk  about  free 
dom;  and  yet  are  a  slave  to  the  most  debasing  appetite. 
Get  free  from  the  influence  of  that  eager,  insatiable  de 
sire,  and  you  are  free,  indeed.  The  perpetual  total- 
abstinence  pledge  will  be  your  declaration  of  indepen 
dence.  When  that  is  taken,  you  will  be  free,  indeed. 
And  until  it  is  taken,  rest  assured,  that  none  of  your 
friends  will  again  have  confidence  in  you.  For  their 
sakes, — for  your  sister's  sake,  that  peace  may  once  more 
be  restored  to  her  troubled  heart  —  for  the  sake  of  her, 
from  whose  lip  you  dashed  the  cup  of  joy,  sign  the 
pledge." 

"  I  will  sign  it,  Mr.  Gray.  But  name  not  her  whom  I 
have  so  deeply  wronged.  I  can  never  see  Helen  Weston 
again." 

"  Time  heals  many  a  wound,  and  closes  many  a  breach 
my  young  friend." 

"  It  can  never  heal  that  wound,  nor  close  that  breach," 
was  the  sad  response.  "  But  give  me  a  pen  and  ink,  and 


SWEARING     OFF.  127 

some  paper ;  and  let  me  write  a  pledge.     I  believe  it  is 
necessary  for  me  to  sign  one." 

The  materials  for  writing  were  brought  as  desired,  and 
Barclay  wrote  and  subscribed  a  pledge  of  perpetual  ab 
stinence  from  all  that  could  intoxicate. 

"  That  danger  is  past,"  he  said,  with  a  lighter  tone,  as 
he  arose  from  the  table  at  which  he  had  been  writing.  I 
can  never  pass  another  such  a  week  as  that  which  has 
just  elapsed." 

"  Now  come  down  and  take  a  good  warm  breakfast 
with  me,"  Mr.  Gray  said,  in  a  cheerful  voice. 

"  Excuse  me  if  you  please,"  Barclay  replied.  "  I  can 
not  meet  your  family  this  morning,  after  what  has  occur 
red.  Besides,  I  must  see  my  sister  as  quickly  as  possi 
ble,  and  relieve,  as  far  as  lies  in  my  power,  her  suffering 
heart." 

"  Go  then,  John  Barclay,"  the  old  man  said.  "  I  will 
not,  for  Alice's  sake,  urge  you  to  linger  a  moment." 

It  was  still  early  when  Mr.  Barclay  entered  his  own 
home.  He  found  Alice  sitting  in  the  parlour  so  pale,  hag 
gard,  and  wretched,  that  her  features  hardly  seemed  like 
those  of  his  own  sister.  She  looked  up  into  his  face  as 
he  came  in  with  a  sad,  doubting  expression,  while  her  lips 
trembled.  One  glance,  however,  told  her  heart  that  a 
change  had  taken  place,  and  she  sprang  quickly  towards 
him. 

"  Alice,  my  own  dear  sister !"  he  said,  as  her  head  sank 
upon  his  breast.  "  The  struggle  is  over.  I  am  free  once 
more,  and  free  for  ever.  I  have  just  signed  a  pledge  of 
total-abstinence  from  all  that  can  intoxicate  —  a  pledge 
that  will  remain  perpetually  in  force." 

"  And  may  our  Father  in  Heaven  help  you  to  keep  it, 
John,"  the  maiden  murmured,  in  a  low,  fervent  tone. 

*'  I  will  die  before  it  shall  be  violated,"  was  the  stern 
response. 

#  *  *  *  * 

One  year  from  that  time,  another  bridal  party  assem 
bled  at  the  residence  of  Mr.  Weston.  Helen  long 
since  recovered  from  the  shock  she  had  received,  had 
again  consented  to  be  led  to  the  altar,  by  John  Barclay, 
whose  life  had  been,  since  he  signed  the  pledge,  of  the 
most  unexceptionable  character.  Indeed,  almost  his  only 

16 


128  SWEARING     OFF. 

fault  in  former  times  had  been  a  fondness  for  drinking, 
and  gay  company.  Not  much  of  boisterous  mirth  cha 
racterized  the  bridal  party,  for  none  felt  like  giving  way 
to  an  exuberance  of  feeling,  —  but  there  was,  notwith 
standing  few  could  draw  a  veil  entirely  over  the  past,  a 
rational  conviction  that  true  and  permanent  happiness 
must,  and  would  crown  that  marriage  union.  And  thus 
far,  it  has  followed  it,  and  must  continue  to  follow  it,  for 
John  Barclay  is  a  man  of  high-toned  principle,  and  would 
as  soon  think  of  committing  a  highway  robbery,  as  vio 
lating  his  pledge. 


THE 

FAILING    HOPE. 


"  SHALL  I  read  to  you,  ma  ?"  said  Emma  Martin,  a  little 
girl,  eleven  years  of  age,  coming  up  to  the  side  of  her 
mother,  who  sat  in  a  musing  attitude  by  the  centre-table, 
upon  which  the  servant  had  just  placed  a  light. 

Mrs.  Martin  did  not  seem  to  hear  the  voice  of  her 
child ;  for  she  moved  not,  nor  was  there  any  change  in 
the  fixed,  dreamy  expression  of  her  face. 

"  Ma,"  repeated  the  child,  after  waiting  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  laying,  at  the  same  time,  her  head  gently  upon  her 
mother's  shoulder. 

"  What,  dear  1"  Mrs.  Martin  asked,  in  a  tender  voice, 
rousing  herself  up. 

"  Shall  I  read  to  you,  ma  ?"  repeated  the  child. 

"  No  —  yes,  dear,  you  may  read  for  me" —  the  mother 
said,  and  her  tones  were  low,  with  something  mournful  in 
their  expression. 

"What  shall  I  read,  ma?" 

"  Get  the  Bible,  dear,  and  read  to  me  from  that  good 
book,"  replied  Mrs.  Martin. 

"I  love  to  read  in  the  Bible,"  Emma  said,  as  she 
brought  to  the  centre-table  that  sacred  volume,  and  com 
menced  turning  over  its  pages.  She  then  read  chapter 
after  chapter,  while  the  mother  listened  in  deep  attention, 
often  lifting  her  heart  upwards,  and  breathing  a  silent 
prayer.  At  last  Emma  grew  tired  with  reading,  and 
closed  the  book. 

"  It  is  time  for  you  to  go  to  bed,  dear,"  Mrs.  Martin 
observed,  as  the  little  girl  showed  signs  of  weariness. 

"  Kiss  me,  ma,"  the  child  said,  lifting  her  innocent  face 
to  that  of  her  mother,  and  receiving  the  token  of  love  she 
asked.  Then,  breathing  her  gentle, 

"Good-night!"  the  affectionate  girl  glided  off,  and 
retired  to  her  chamber. 

17  (129) 


130  FAILING     HOPE. 

"  Dear  child  !'*  Mrs.  Martin  murmured,  as  Emma  left 
the  room.  "  My  heart  trembles  when  I  think  of  you,  and 
look  into  the  dark  and  doubtful  future  1" 

She  then  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand,  and  sat  in 
deep,  and  evidently  painful  abstraction  of  mind.  Thus 
she  remained  for  a  long  time,  until  aroused  by  the  clock 
which  struck  the  hour  of  ten. 

With  a  deep  sigh  she  arose,  and  commenced  pacing 
the  room  backwards  and  forwards,  pausing  every  now 
and  then  to  listen  to  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps, 
and  moving  on  again  as  the  sound  went  by.  Thus  she 
continued  to  walk  until  nigh  eleven  o'clock,  when  some 
one  drew  near,  paused  at  the  street  door,  and  then  open 
ing  it,  came  along  the  passage  with  a  firm  and  steady 
step. 

Mrs.  Martin  stopped,  trembling  in  spite  of  herself,  before 
the  parlour  door,  which  a  moment  after  was  swung  open. 
One  glance  at  the  face  of  the  individual  who  entered,  con 
vinced  her  that  her  solicitude  had  been  unnecessary. 

"  Oh,  James !"  she  said,  the  tears  gushing  from  her  eyes, 
in  spite  of  a  strong  effort  to  compose  herself, — "  I  am  so 
glad  that  you  have  come  !" 

"  Why  are  you  so  agitated,  Emma?"  her  husband  said, 
in  some  surprise,  looking  inquiringly  into  Mrs.  Martin's 
face. 

"  You  staid  out  so  late — and — you  know  I  am  foolish 
sometimes !"  she  replied,  leaning  her  head  down  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  continuing  to  weep. 

A  change  instantly  passed  upon  Mr.  Martin's  counte 
nance,  and  he  stood  still,  for  some  time,  his  face  wearing 
a  grave  thoughtful  expression,  while  his  wife  remained 
with  her  head  leaning  upon  him.  At  last  he  drew  his 
arm  tenderly  around  her,  and  said — 

"Emma,  I  am  a  sober  man." 

"  Do  not,  dear  James !  speak  of  that.  I  am  so  happv 
now !" 

"  Yes,  Emma,  I  will  speak  of  it  now."  And  as  he  said 
so,  he  gently  seated  her  upon  the  sofa,  and  took  his  place 
beside  her. 

"  Emma" — he  resumed,  looking  her  steadily  in  the  face. 
"  I  have  resolved  never  again  to  touch  the  accursed  cup 
that  has  so  well-nigh  destroyed  our  peace  for  ever." 


FAILING     HOPE.  131 

"Oh,  James !  What  a  mountain  you  have  taken  from 
my  heart !"  Mrs.  Martin  replied,  the  whole  expression  of 
her  face  changing  as  suddenly  as  a  landscape  upon  which 
the  sun  shines  from  beneath  an  obscuring  cloud.  "  I  have 
had  nothing  to  trouble  me  but  that  —  yet  that  one  trouble 
has  seemed  more  than  I  could  possibly  bear." 

"  You  shall  have  no  more  trouble,  Emma.  I  have  been 
for  some  months  under  a  strange  delusion,  it  has  seemed. 
But  I  am  now  fully  awake,  and  see  the  dangerous  preci 
pice  upon  which  I  have  been  standing.  This  night,  I 
have  solemnly  resolved  that  I  would  drink  no  more 
spirituous  liquors.  Nothing  stronger  than  wine  shall 
again  pass  my  lips." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  my  heart  is  relieved,"  the  wife 
said.  "The  whole  of  this  evening  I  have  been  painfully 
oppressed  with  fear  and  dark  forebodings.  Our  dear 
little  girl  is  now  at  that  age,  when  her  future  prospects 
interest  me  all  the  while.  I  think  of  them  night  and  day. 
Shall  they  all  be  marred  ?  I  have  asked  myself  often  and 
often.  But  I  could  give  my  heart  no  certain  answer.  I 
need  not  tell  you  why." 

"  Give  yourself  no  more  anxiety  on  this  point,  Emma," 
her  husband  replied.  "  I  will  be  a  free  man  again.  I 
will  be  to  you  and  my  dear  child  all  that  I  have  ever 
been." 

"  May  our  Heavenly  Father  aid  you  to  keep  that  reso 
lution,"  was  the  silent  prayer  that  went  up  from  the  heart 
of  Mrs.  Martin. 

The  failing  hope  of  her  bosom  revived  under  this 
assurance.  She  felt  again  as  in  the  early  years  of  their 
wedded  life,  when  hope  and  confidence,  and  tender  affec 
tion  were  all  in  the  bloom  and  vigour  of  their  first  de- 
velopement.  The  light  came  back  to  her  eye,  and  the 
smile  to  her  lip. 

It  was  about  four  months  afterwards,  that  Mr.  Martin 
was  invited  to  make  one  of  a  small  party,  given  to  a 
literary  man,  as  visiter  from  a  neighbouring  city. 

"  I  shall  not  be  home  to  dinner,  Emma,"  he  said,  on 
leaving  in  the  morning. 

"  Why  not,  James?"  she  asked. 

"  I  am  going  to  dine  at  four,  with  a  select  party  of 
gentlemen." 


]32  FAILING     HOPE. 

Mrs.  Martin  did  not  reply,  but  a  cloud  passed  over  her 
face,  in  spite  of  an  effort  not  to  seem  concerned. 

"Don't  be  uneasy,  Emma,"  her  husband  said,  noting 
this  change.  "  I  shall  touch  nothing  but  wine.  I  know 
rny  weakness,  and  shall  be  on  my  guard." 

"  Do  be  watchful  over  yourself,  for  my  sake,  and  for 
the  sake  of  our  own  dear  child,"  Mrs.  Martin  replied, 
laying  her  arm  tenderly  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Have  no  fear,  Emma,"  he  said,  and  kissing  the  yet 
fair  and  beautiful  cheek  of  his  wife,  Mr.  Martin  left  the 
house. 

How  long,  how  very  long  did  the  day  seem  to  Mrs. 
Martin  !  The  usual  hour  for  his  return  came  and  went,  the 
dinner  hardly  tasted ;  and  then  his  wife  counted  the  hours 
as  they  passed  lingeringly  away,  until  the  dim,  grey 
twilight  fell  with  a  saddening  influence  around  her. 

"  He  will  be  home  soon,  now,"  she  thought.  But  the 
minutes  glided  into  hours,  and  still  he  did  not  come.  The 
tea-table  stood  in  the  floor  until  nearly  nine  o'clock,  before 
Mrs.  Martin  sat  down  with  little  Emma.  But  no  food 
passed  the  mother's  lips.  She  could  not  eat.  There  was 
a  strange  fear  about  her  heart  —  a  dread  of  coming  evil, 
that  chilled  her  feelings,  and  threw  a  dark  cloud  over  her 
spirits. 

In  the  meantime,  Martin  had  gone  to  the  dinner-party, 
firm  in  his  resolution  not  to  touch  a  drop  of  ardent  spirits. 
But  the  taste  of  wine  had  inflamed  his  appetite,  and  he 
drank  more  and  more  freely,  until  he  ceased  to  feel  the 
power  of  his  resolution,  and  again  put  brandy  to  his  lips, 
and  drank  with  the  eagerness  of  a  worn  and  thirsty  tra 
veller  at  a  cooling  brook.  It  was  nine  o'clock  when  the 
company  arose,  or  rather  attempted  to  arise  from  the  table. 
Not  all  of  them  could  accomplish  that  feat.  Three, 
Martin  among  the  rest,  were  carried  off  to  bed,  in  a  state 
of  helpless  intoxication. 

Hour  after  hour  passed  away,  the  anxiety  of  Mrs. 
Martin  increasing  every  moment,  until  the  clock  struck 
twelve. 

"Why  does  he  stay  so  late?"  she  said,  rising  and 
pacing  the  room  backwards  and  forwards.  This  she 
continued  to  do,  pausing  every  now  and  then  to  listen, 
for  nearly  an  hour.  Then  she  went  to  the  door  and  look- 


FAILING     HOPE.  133 

ed  long  and  anxiously  in  the  direction  from  which  she 
expected  her  husband  to  come.  But  his  well-known  form 
met  not  her  eager  eyes,  that  peered  so  intently  into  the 
darkness  and  gloom  of  the  night.  With  another  long- 
drawn  sigh,  she  closed  the  door,  and  re-entered  the  silent 
and  lonely  room.  That  silence  was  broken  by  the  loud 
and  clear  ringing  of  the  clock.  The  hour  was  one  !  Mrs. 
Martin's  feelings  now  became  too  much  excited  for  her  to 
control  them.  She  sank  into  a  chair,  and  wept  in  silent 
anguish  of  spirit.  For  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  her 
tears  continued  to  flow,  and  then  a  deep  calm  succeeded — 
a  kind  of  mental  stupor,  that  remained  until  she  wa? 
startled  again  into  distinct  consciousness  by  the  sound  of 
the  clock  striking  two. 

All  hope  now  faded  from  her  bosom.  Up  to  this  time 
she  had  entertained  a  feeble  expectation  that  her  husband 
might  be  kept  away  from  some  other  cause  than  the  one 
she  so  dreaded;  but  now  that  prop  became  only  as  a 
broken  reed,  to  pierce  her  with  a  keener  anguish. 

"  It  is  all  over !"  she  murmured  bitterly,  as  she  again 
arose,  and  commenced  walking  to  and  fro  with  slow  and 
measured  steps. 

It  was  fully  three  o'clock  before  that  lonely,  and  almost 
heart-broken  wife  and  mother  retired  to  her  chamber. 
How  cruelly  had  the  hope  which  had  grown  bright  and 
buoyant  in  the  last  few  months,  gaining  more  strength 
and  confidence  every  day,  been  again  crushed  to  the 
earth ! 

For  an  hour  longer  did  Mrs.  Martin  sit,  listening  in  her 
chamber,  everything  around  her  so  hushed  into  oppres 
sive  silence,  that  the  troubled  beating  of  her  own  heart, 
was  distinctly  audible.  But  she  waited  and  listened  in 
vain.  The  sound  of  passing  footsteps  that  now  came 
only  at  long,  very  long  intervals,  served  but  to  arouse  a 
momentary  gleam  in  her  mind,  to  fade  away  again,  and 
leave  it  in  deeper  darkness. 

Without  disrobing,  she  now  laid  herself  down,  still  lis 
tening,  with  an  anxiety  that  grew  more  and  more  intense 
every  moment.  At  last,  over-wearied  nature  could  bear 
up  no  longer,  and  she  sunk  into  a  troubled  sleep.  When 
she  awoke  from  this,  it  was  daylight.  Oh,  how  weary 
and  worn  and  wretched  she  felt !  The  cansciousness  of 


134  FAILING     HOPE. 

why  she  thus  lay,  with  her  clothes  unremoved,  the  sad 
remembrance  of  her  hours  of  waiting  and  watching 
through  nearly  the  whole  night,  all  came  up  before  her 
with  painful  distinctness.  Who  but  she  who  has  suffered, 
can  imagine  her  feelings  at  that  bitter  moment1? 

On  descending  to  the  parlour,  she  found  her  husband 
lying  in  a  half-stupid  condition  on  the  sofa,  the  close  air 
of  the  room  impregnated  with  his  breath — the  sickening, 
disgusting  breath  of  a  drunken  man !  Bruised,  crushed, 
paralyzed  affection  had  now  to  lift  itself  up — the  wife  just 
ready  to  sink  to  the  earth,  powerless,  under  the  weight  of 
an  overburdening  affliction,  had  now  to  nerve  herself 
under  the  impulse  of  duty. 

"  James !  James  !"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  assumed  calm 
ness —  laying  her  hand  upon  him  and  endeavouring  to 
arouse  him  to  consciousness.  But  it  was  a  long  time 
before  she  could  get  him  so  fully  awake  as  to  make  him 
understand  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  go  up  stairs 
and  retire  to  bed.  At  length  she  succeeded  in  getting 
him  into  his  chamber  before  the  servants  had  come  down; 
and  then  into  bed.  Once  there,  he  fell  off  again  into  a 
profound  sleep. 

"Is  pa  sick?"  asked  little  Emma,  coming  into  her 
mother's  chamber,  about  an  hour  after,  and  seeing  her 
father  in  bed. 

"  Yes,  dear,  your  father  is  quite  unwell !"  Mrs.  Martin 
said,  in  a  calm  voice. 

"  What  ails  him,  ma  1"  pursued  the  child. 

"  He  is  not  very  well,  dear ;  but  will  be  better  soon," 
the  mother  said,  evasively. 

The  little  girl  looked  into  her  mother's  face  for  a  few 
moments  unsatisfied  with  the  answer,  and  unwilling  to 
ask  another  question.  She  felt  that  something  was  wrong, 
more  than  the  simple  illness  of  her  father. 

It  was  near  the  middle  of  the  day  when  Mr.  Martin 
became  fully  awake  and  conscious  of  his  condition.  If 
he  had  sought  forgetfulness  of  the  past  night's  debauch 
and  degradation,  the  sad,  reproving  face  of  his  wife,  pale 
and  languid  from  anxiety  and  watching,  would  too  quick 
ly  have  restored  the  memory  of  his  fall. 

The  very  bitterness  of  his  self-condemnation — the  very 
keenness  of  wounded  pride  irritated  his  feelings,  and 


FAILING     HOPE.  135 

made  him  feel  gloomy  and  sullen.  He  felt  deeply  for  his 
suffering  wife — he  wished  most  ardently  to  speak  to  her  a 
word  of  comfort,  but  his  pride  kept  him  silent.  At  the 
dinner  hour,  he  eat  a  few  mouthfuls  in  silence,  and  then 
withdrew  from  the  table  and  left  the  house  to  attend  to 
his  ordinary  business.  On  his  way  to  his  office,  he  passed 
a  hotel  where  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  drinking.  He 
felt  so  wretched — so  much  in  want  of  something  to  buoy 
up  his  depressed  feelings,  that  he  entered,  and  calling  for 
some  wine,  drank  two  or  three  glasses.  This,  in  a  few 
minutes,  had  the  desired  effect,  and  he  repaired  to  his 
office  feeling  like  a  new  man. 

During  the  afternoon,  he  drank  wine  frequently;  and 
when  he  returned  home  in  the  evening,  was  a  good  deal 
under  its  influence ;  so  much  so,  that  all  the  reserve  he 
had  felt  in  the  morning  was  gone.  He  spoke  pleasantly 
and  freely  with  his  wife  —  talked  of  future  schemes  of 
pleasure  and  success.  But,  alas  !  his  pleasant  words  fell 
upon  her  heart  like  sunshine  upon  ice.  It  was  too  pain 
fully  evident  that  he  had  again  been  drinking — and  drink 
ing  to  the  extent  of  making  him  altogether  unconscious 
of  his  true  position.  She  would  rather  a  thousand  times 
have  seen  him  overwhelmed  by  remorse.  Then  there 
would  have  been  something  for  her  hope  to  have  leaned 
upon. 

Day  after  day  did  Mr.  Martin  continue  to  resort  to  the 
wine-cup.  Every  morning  he  felt  so  wretched  that  ex 
istence  seemed  a  burden  to  him,  until  his  keen  perceptions 
were  blunted  by  wine.  Then  the  appetite  for  something 
stronger  would  be  stimulated,  and  draught  after  draught 
of  brandy  would  follow,  until  when  night  came,  he  would 
return  home  to  agonize  the  heart  of  his  wife  with  a  new 
pang,  keener  than  any  that  had  gone  before. 

Such  a  course  of  conduct  could  not  be  pursued  without 
its  becoming  apparent  to  all  in  the  house.  Mrs.  Martin 
had,  therefore,  added  to  the  cup  of  sorrow,  the  mortifica 
tion  and  pain  of  having  the  servants,  and  her  child  daily 
conscious  of  his  degradation.  Poor  little  Emma  would 
shrink  away  instinctively  from  her  father  when  he  would 
return  home  in  the  evening  and  endeavour  to  lavish  upon 
her  his  caresses.  Sometimes  Mr.  Martin  would  get  irri 
tated  at  this. 

17 


136  FAILING     HOPE. 

"What  are  you  sidling  off  in  that  way  for,  Emma?" 
he  said,  half-angrily,  one  evening,  when  he  was  more 
than  usually  under  the  influence  of  liquor,  as  Emma  shrunk 
away  from  him  on  his  coming  in. 

The  little  girl  paused  and  looked  frightened  —  glanc 
ing  first  at  her  mother,  and  then  again,  timidly,  at  her 
father. 

"  Come  along  here,  I  say,"  repeated  the  father,  seating 
himself,  and  holding  out  his  hands. 

"  Go,  dear,"  Mrs.  Martin  said. 

"  I  reckon  she  can  come  without  you  telling  her  to, 
madam  !"  her  husband  responded,  angrily.  "  Come  along, 
I  tell  you !"  he  added  in  a  loud,  excited  tone,  his  face 
growing  red  with  passion. 

"  There  now  !  Why  didn't  you  come  when  I  first  spoke 
to  you,  ha?"  he  said,  drawing  the  child  towards  him  with 
a  quick  jerk,  so  soon  as  she  came  within  reach  of  his 
extended  hand.  "  Say.  Why  didn't  you  come  1  Tell 
me  !  Aint  I  your  father  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  was  the  timid  reply. 

"  And  havn't  I  taught  you  that  you  must  obey  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  come,  just  now,  when  I  called 
you?" 

To  this  interrogation  the  little  girl  made  no  reply,  but 
looked  exceedingly  frightened. 

"  Did  you  hear  what  I  said  ?"  pursued  the  father,  in  a 
louder  voice. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  answer  me,  this  instant !  Why  didn't  you  come 
when  I  called  you  ?" 

"  Because,  I — I — I  was  afraid,"  was  the  timid,  hesita 
ting  reply. 

Something  seemed  to  whisper  to  the  father's  mind  a 
consciousness,  that  his  appearance  and  conduct  while 
under  the  influence  of  liquor,  might  be  such  as  not  only 
to  frighten,  but  estrange  his  child's  affection  from  him ; 
and  he  seemed  touched  by  the  thought,  for  his  manner 
changed,  though  he  was  still  to  a  degree  irrational. 

"  Go  away,  then,  Emma  !  Take  her  away,  mother,"  he 
said,  in  a  tone  which  indicated  that  his  feelings  were 
'ouched.  "  She  don't  love  her  father  any  more,  and  don'» 


FAILING     HOPE.  137 

care  anything  more  about  him,"  pushing  at  the  same  time 
the  child  away  from  him. 

Poor  little  Emma  burst  into  tears,  and  shrinking  to  the 
side  of  her  mother,  buried  her  face  in  the  folds  of  her 
dress,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  were  breaking. 

Mrs.  Martin  took  her  little  girl  by  the  hand  and  led  her 
from  the  room,  up  to  the  chamber,  and  kissing  her,  told 
her  to  remain  there  until  the  servant  brought  her  some 
supper,  when  she  could  go  to  bed. 

"  I  don't  want  any  supper,  ma !"  she  said,  still  sobbing 
passionately. 

"  Don't  cry,  dear,"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  soothingly. 

'•"Indeed,  ma,  I  do  love  father,"  the  child  said  —  look 
ing  up  earnestly  into  her  mother's  face,  the  tears  still 
streaming  over  her  cheeks.  "Won't  you  tell  him  so 7" 

"  Yes,  Emma,  I  will  tell  him,"  the  mother  replied. 

"  And  won't  you  ask  him  to  come  up  and  kiss  me  after 
I  'm  in  bed  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  And  will  he  come  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  he  will  come  and  kiss  you." 

Mrs.  Martin  remained  with  her  little  girl  until  her  feel 
ings  were  quieted  down,  and  then  she  descended  with 
reluctant  steps  to  the  parlour.  There  was  that  in  tha 
scene  which  had  just  passed,  that  sobered,  to  a  great 
extent,  the  half-intoxicated  husband  and  father,  and  caus 
ed  him  to  feel  humbled  and  pained  at  his  conduct ;  which 
it  was  too  apparent  was  breaking  the  heart  of  his  wife, 
and  estranging  the  affection  of  his  child. 

When  Mrs.  Martin  re-entered  the  parlour,  she  found 
him  sitting  near  a  table,  with  his  head  resting  upon  his 
hand,  and  his  whole  manner  indicating  a  state  of  painful 
self-consciousness.  With  the  instinctive  perception  of  a 
woman,  she  saw  the  truth ;  and  going  at  once  up  to  him, 
she  laid  her  hand  upon  him,  and  said : 

"James  —  Emma  wants  you  to  come  up  and  kiss  her 
after  she  gets  into  bed.  She  says  that  she  does  love  you, 
and  she  wished  me  to  tell  you  so." 

Mr.  Martin  did  not  reply.  There  was  something  calm, 
gentle,  and  affectionate,  in  the  manner  and  tones  of  his 
wife, — something  that  melted  him  completely  down.  A 
choking  sob  followed ;  when  he  arose  hastily,  and  retired 

18 


138  FAILING     HOPE. 

to  his  chamber.  Mrs.  Martin  did  not  follow  him  thither. 
She  saw  that  his  own  reflections  were  doing  more  for  him 
than  anything  that  she  could  do  or  say ;  and,  therefore, 
she  deemed  it  the  part  of  wisdom  to  let  his  own  reflec 
tions  be  his  companion,  and  do  their  own  work. 

When  Mr.  Martin  entered  his  chamber,  he  seated  him 
self  near  the  bed,  and  leaned  his  head  down  upon  it.  He 
was  becoming  more  and  more  sobered  every  moment  — 
more  and  more  distinctly  conscious  of  the  true  nature  of 
the  ground  he  occupied.  Still  his  mind  was  a  good  deal 
confused,  for  the  physical  action  of  the  stimulus  he  had 
taken  through  the  day,  had  not  yet  subsided ;  although 
there  was  a  strong  mental  counteracting  cause  in  opera 
tion,  which  was  gradually  subduing  the  effect  of  his  pota 
tions.  As  he  sat  thus,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
and  half-reclining  upon  the  bed,  a  deep  sigh,  or  half-sup 
pressed  sob,  caught  his  ear.  It  came  from  the  adjoining 
chamber.  He  remembered  his  child  in  an  instant.  His 
only  child — whom  he  most  fondly  loved.  He  remember 
ed,  too,  her  conduct,  but  a  short  time  before,  and  saw, 
with  painful  distinctness,  that  he  was  estranging  from 
himself,  and  bringing  sorrow  upon  one  whose  gentle 
nature  had  affected  even  his  heart  with  feelings  of  pecu 
liar  tenderness. 

"  My  dear  child !"  he  murmured,  as  he  arose  to  his  feet, 
and  went  quietly  into  her  room.  She  had  already  retired 
to  bed,  and  lay  with  her  head  almost  buried  beneath  the 
clothes,  as  if  shrinking  away  with  a  sensation  akin  to  fear. 
But  she  heard  him  enter,  and  instantly  rose  up,  saying,  as 
she  saw  him  approach  her  bed — 
"  O,  pa,  indeed  I  do  love  you  !" 

"  And  I  love  you,  my  child,"  Mr.  Martin  responded, 
bending  over  her  and  kissing  her  forehead,  cheeks,  and 
lips,  with  an  earnest  fondness. 

"And  don't  you  love  ma,  too  ?"  inquired  Emma. 
"  Certainly  I  do,  my  dear  !  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?" 
"  Because  I  see  her  crying  so  often — almost  every  day. 
And  she  seems  so  troubled  just  before  you  come  home, 
every  evening.     She  didn't  use  to  be  so.     A  good  while 
ago,  she  used  to  be  always  talking  about  when  pa  would 
be  home ;  and  used  to  dress  me  up  every  afternoon  to  see 
you.     But  now  she  never  says  anything  about  your  com- 


FAILING     HOPE.  139 

ing  home  at  night.  Don't  you  know  how  we  used  to 
walk  out  and  meet  you  sometimes?  We  never  do  it 
now !" 

This  innocent  appeal  was  like  an  arrow  piercing  him 
with  the  most  acute  pain.  He  could  not  find  words  in 
which  to  frame  a  reply.  Simply  kissing  her  again,  and 
bidding  her  a  tender  good-night,  he  turned  away  and  left 
her  chamber,  feeling  more  wretched  than  he  had  ever 
felt  in  his  life. 

It  was  about  twelve  years  since  the  wife  of  Mr.  Martin 
had  united  her  hopes  and  affections  with  his.  At  that 
time  he  was  esteemed  by  all  —  a  strictly  temperate  man, 
although  he  would  drink  with  a  friend,  or  at  a  convivial 
party,  whenever  circumstances  led  him  to  do  so.  From 
this  kind  of  indulgence  the  appetite  for  liquor  was  form 
ed.  Two  years  after  his  marriage,  Martin  had  become 
so  fond  of  drinking,  that  he  took  from  two  to  three  glasses 
every  day,  regularly.  Brandy  at  dinner-time  was  indis 
pensable.  The  meal  would  have  seemed  to  him  wanting 
in  a  principal  article  without  it.  It  was  not  until  about 
five  years  after  their  marriage  that  Mrs.  Martin  was 
aroused  to  a  distinct  consciousness  of  danger.  Her  hus 
band  came  home  so  much  intoxicated  as  to  be  scarcely 
able  to  get  up  into  his  chamber.  Then  she  remembered, 
but  too  vividly,  the  slow,  but  sure  progress  he  had  been 
making  towards  intemperance,  during  the  past  two  or 
three  years,  and  her  heart  sunk  trembling  in  her  bosom 
with  a  new  and  awful  fear.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  sud 
denly  awakened  from  a  delusive  dream  of  happiness  and 
security,  to  find  herself  standing  at  the  brink  of  a  fearful 
precipice. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  What  shall  I  do  1"  were  questions 
repeated  over  and  over  again;  but,  alas  !  she  could  find  no 
answer  upon  which  her  troubled  heart  could  repose  with 
confidence.  How  could  she  approach  her  husband  upon 
such  a  subject?  She  felt  that  she  could  not  allude  to  it. 

Month  after  month,  and  year  after  year,  she  watched 
with  an  anguish  of  spirit  that  paled  her  cheek,  and  stole 
away  the  brightness  from  her  eye,  the  slow,  but  sure  pro 
gress  of  the  destroyer.  Alas  !  how  did  hope  fail — fail — 
fail,  until  it  lived  in  her  bosom  but  a  faint,  feeble,  flicker 
ing  ray.  At  last  she  ventured  to  remonstrate,  and  me 


140  FAILING     HOPE. 

with  anger  and  repulse.  When  this  subsided,  and  her 
husband  began  to  reflect  more  deeply  upon  his  course,  he 
\vas  humbled  in  spirit,  and  sought  to  heal  the  wound  his 
conduct  and  his  words  had  made.  Then  came  promises 
of  amendment,  and  Mrs.  Martin  fondly  hoped  all  would 
be  well  again.  The  light  again  came  back  to  her  heart. 
But  it  did  not  long  remain.  Martin  still  permitted  him 
self  to  indulge  in  wine,  which  soon  excited  the  desire  for 
stronger  stimulants,  and  he  again  indulged,  and  again 
fell. 

Ten  times  had  he  thus  fallen,  each  time  repenting,  and 
each  time  restoring  a  degree  of  confidence  to  the  heart 
of  his  wife,  by  promises  of  future  abstinence.  Gradually 
did  hope  continue  to  grow  weaker  and  weaker,  at  each 
relapse,  until  it  had  nearly  failed. 

"  There  is  no  hope,"  she  said  to  herself,  mournfully, 
as  she  sat  in  deep  thought,  on  the  evening  in  which  occur 
red  the  scene  we  have  just  described.  "  He  has  tried  so 
often,  and  fallen  again  at  every  effort.  There  is  no  hope 
— no  hope !" 

It  was  an  hour  after  Mr.  Martin  had  retired  to  his 
chamber,  that  his  wife  went  up  softly,  and  first  went  into 
Emma's  room.  The  child  was  asleep,  and  there  was  on 
her  innocent  face  a  quiet  smile,  as  if  pleasant  images  were 
resting  upon  her  mind.  A  soft  kiss  was  imprinted  on  her 
fair  forehead,  and  then  Mrs.  Martin  went  into  her  own 
chamber.  She  found  that  her  husband  had  retired  to  bed 
and  was  asleep. 

But  few  hours  of  refreshing  slumber  visited  the  eye 
lids  of  the  almost  despairing  wife.  Towards  morning, 
however,  she  sank  away  into  a  deep  sleep.  When  she 
awoke  from  this,  it  was  an  hour  after  daylight.  Her  hus 
band  was  up  and  dressed,  and  sat  beside  the  bed,  looking 
into  her  face  with  an  expression  of  subdued,  but  calm  and 
tender  affection. 

"  Emma,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand,  as  soon  as  she  was 
fairly  awakened,  "  can  you  again  have  confidence  in  me, 
or  has  hope  failed  altogether  ?" 

Mrs.  Martin  did  not  reply,  but  looked  at  her  husband 
steadily  and  inquiringly. 

"  I  understand  you,"  he  said,  "  you  have  almost,  if  not 
altogether  ceased  to  hope.  I  do  not  wonder  at  it.  If  I 


FAILING     HOPE.  141 

had  not  so  often  mocked  your  generous  confidence,  I 
would  again  assure  you  that  all  will  be  well.  I  see  that, 
what  I  say  does  not  make  the  warm  blood  bound  to  your 
face,  as  once  it  did.  I  will  not  use  idle  words  to  convince 
you.  But  one  thing  I  will  say.  I  have  been,  for  some 
time  past,  conscious,  that  it  was  dangerous  for  me  to  touch 
wine,  or  ale,  or  anything  that  stimulates,  as  they.  do. 
They  only  revive  an  appetite  for  stronger  drinks,  while 
they  take  away  a  measure  of  self-control.  I  have,  there 
fore,  most  solemnly  promised  myself,  that  I  will  never 
again  touch  or  taste  any  spirituous  liquors,  wine,  malt,  or 
cider.  Nor  will  I  again  attend  any  convivial  parties, 
where  these  things  are  used.  Hereafter,  I  shall  act  upon 
the  total-abstinence  principle — for  only  in  total-abstinence, 
is  there  safety  for  one  like  me." 

There  was  something  so  solemn  and  earnest  in  the 
manner  of  her  husband,  that  Mrs.  Martin's  drooping 
spirits  began  to  revive.  Again  did  her  eye  brighten,  and 
her  cheek  kindle.  Then  came  a  gush  of  tears  attesting 
the  power  of  a  new  impulse.  The  failing  hope  was 
renewed ! 

And  day  after  day,  week  after  week,  and  month  after 
month,  did  that  hope  strengthen  and  gain  confidence. 
Years  have  passed,  since  that  total-abstinence  resolution 
was  taken,  and  not  once  during  *he  time  has  Martin  been 
tempted  to  violate  it.  Yet,  is  he  vividly  conscious,  that 
only  in  total-abstinence  from  everything  that  can  intoxi 
cate  is  there  safety  for  him. 


TAKING   TOLL. 


MR.  SMITH  kept  a  drug  shop  in  the  little  village  of 

Q ,  which  was  situated  a  few  miles  from  Lancaster.    It 

was  his  custom  to  visit  the  latter  place  every  week  or  two, 
in  order  to  purchase  such  articles  as  were  needed  from  time 
to  time  in  his  business.  One  day,  he  drove  off  towards 
Lancaster,  in  his  wagon,  in  which,  among  other  things, 
was  a  gallon  demijohn.  On  reaching  the  town,  he  called 
first  at  a  grocer's  with  the  inquiry, 

"  Have  you  any  common  wine  ?" 

"  How  common  ?"  asked  the  grocer. 

"  About  a  dollar  a  gallon.  I  want  it  for  antimonial 
wine." 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  some  just  fit  for  that,  and  not  much  else, 
which  I  will  sell  at  a  dollar." 

"  Very  well.     Give  me  a  gallon,"  said  Mr.  Smith. 

The  demijohn  was  brought  in  from  the  wagon  and  filled. 
And  then  Mr.  Smith  drove  off  to  attend  to  other  business. 
Among  the  things  to  be  done  on  that  day,  was  to  see  a  man 
who  lived  half  a  mile  from  Lancaster.  Before  going  out 
on  this  errand,  Mr.  Smith  stopped  at  the  house  of  his  par 
ticular  friend,  Mr.  Jones.  Mr.  Jones  happened  not  to  be 
in,  but  Mrs.  Jones  was  a  pleasant  woman,  and  he  chatted 
with  her  for  ten  minutes,  or  so.  As  he  stepped  into  his 
wagon,  it  struck  him  that  the  gallon  demijohn  was  a  little  in 
his  way,  and  so,  lifting  it  out,  he  said  to  Mrs.  Jones, 

"  I  wish  you  would  take  care  of  this  until  I  come  back." 

"  0  !  certainly,"  replied  Mrs.  Jones,  "  with  the  greatest 
pleasure." 

And  so  the  demijohn  was  left  in  the  lady's  care. 

Some  time  afterwards  Mr.  Jones  came  in,  and  among 
the  first  things  that  attracted  his  attention,  was  the  strange 
demijohn. 

"  What  is  this  ?"  was  his  natural  inquiry. 

"  Something  that  Mr.  Smith  left." 
(142) 


TAKING    TOLL.  143 

"  Mr.  Smith  from  Q ?" 

c<  yes." 

"  I  wonder  what  he  has  here  ?"  said  Mr.  Jones,  taking 
hold  of  the  demijohn.  "  It  feels  heavy." 

The  cork  was  unhesitatingly  removed,  and  the  mouth  of 
the  vessel  brought  in  contact  with  the  smelling  organ  of 
Mr.  Jones. 

"  Wine,  as  I  live !"  fell  from  his  lips.  "  Bring  me  a 
glass." 

"  0  !  no,  Mr.  Jones.  I  wouldn't  touch  his  wine,"  said 
Mrs.  Jones. 

"  Bring  me  a  glass.  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  let  a 
gallon  of  wine  pass  my  way  without  exacting  toll  ?  No — 
no  !  Bring  me  a  glass." 

The  glass,  a  half-pint  tumbler,  was  produced,  and  nearly 
filled  with  the  execrable  stuff — as  guiltless  of  grape  juice 
as  a  dyer's  vat — which  was  poured  down  the  throat  of  Mr. 
Jones. 

"  Pretty  fair  wine,  that ;  only  a  little  rough,"  said  Mr. 
Jones,  smacking  his  lips. 

"It's  a  shame!"  remarked  Mrs.  Jones,  warmly,  "for 
you  to  do  so." 

"  I  only  took  toll,"  said  the  husband,  laughing.  "  No 
harm  in  that,  I'm  sure." 

"  Rather  heavy  toll,  it  strikes  me,"  replied  Mrs.  Jones. 

Meantime,  Mr.  Smith,  having  completed  most  of  his 
business  for  that  day,  stopped  at  a  store  where  he  wished 
two  or  three  articles  put  up.  While  these  were  in  prepara 
tion  he  said  to  the  keeper  of  the  store, 

"  I  wish  you  would  let  your  lad  Tom  step  over  for  me  to 
Mr.  Jones's.  I  left  a  demijohn  of  common  wine  there, 
which  I  bought  for  the  purpose  of  making  it  into  antimonial 
wine. 

"  0 !  certainly,"  replied  the  store-keeper.  "  Here,  Tom !" 
and  he  called  for  his  boy. 

Tom  came,  and  the  store-keeper  said  to  him, 

"  Run  over  to  Mr.  Jones's  and  get  a  jug  of  antimonial 
wine  which  Mr.  Smith  left  there.  Go  quickly,  for  Mr. 
Smith  is  in  a  hurry." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  lad,  and  away  he  ran. 

After  Mr.  Jones  had  disposed  of  his  half  a  pint  of  wine, 
he  thought  his  stomach  had  rather  a  curious  sensation, 

18 


144  TAKING     TOLL. 

which  is  not  much  to  be  wondered  at,  considering  the 
stuff  with  which  he  had  burdened  it. 

"  I  wonder  if  that  really  is  wine  ?"  said  he,  turning 
from  the  window  at  which  he  had  seated  himself,  and 
taking  up  the  demijohn  again.  The  cork  was  removed,  and 
his  nose  applied  to  the  mouth  of  the  huge  bottle. 

"  Yes,  it's  wine ;  but  I'll  vow  it's  not  much  to  brag  of." 
And  the  cork  was  once  more  replaced. 

Just  then  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  Mrs.  Jones  opened 
it,  and  the  store-keeper's  lad  appeared. 

"  Mr.  Smith  says,  please  let  me  have  the  jug  of  anti- 
monial  wine  he  left  here." 

"  Antimonial  wine !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Jones,  his  chin 
falling,  and  a  paleness  instantly  overspread  his  face. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  lad. 

"  Antimonial  wine !"  fell  again,  but  huskily,  from  the 
quivering  lips  of  Mr.  Jones.  "  Send  for  the  doctor,  Kitty, 
quick  !  Oh !  How  sick  I  feel !  Send  for  the  doctor,  or 
I'll  be  a  dead  man  in  half  an  hour !" 

"  Antimonial  wine  !  Dreadful !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Jones, 
now  as  pale  and  frightened  as  her  husband.  "  Do  you 
feel  sick  ?" 

"0!  yes.  As  sick  as  death!"  And  the  appearance 
of  Mr.  Jones  by  no  means  belied  his  words.  Send  for  the 
doctor  instantly,  or  it  may  be  too  late." 

Mrs.  Jones  ran  first  in  one  direction  and  then  in  another, 
and  finally,  after  telling  the  boy  to  run  for  the  doctor,  called 
Jane,  her  single  domestic,  and  started  her  on  the  same 
errand. 

Off  sprung  Jane  at  a  speed  outstripping  that  of  John 
Gilpin.  Fortunately,  the  doctor  was  in  his  office,  and  he 
came  with  all  the  rapidity  a  proper  regard  to  the  dignity  of 
his  profession  would  permit,  armed  with  a  stomach  pump  and 
a  dozen  antidotes.  On  arriving  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Jones 
he  found  the  sufferer  lying  upon  a  bed,  ghastly  pale,  and 
retching  terribly. 

"  0  !  doctor !  I'm  afraid  it's  all  over  with  me !"  gasped 
the  patient. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  what  have  you  taken  ?"  inquired 
the  doctor,  eagerly. 

"  I  took,  by  mistake,  nearly  a  pint  of  antimonial  wine." 

"  Then  it  must  be  removed  instantly,"  said  the  doctor ; 


TAKING     TOLL.  147 

and  down  the  sick  man's  throat  went  one  end  of  a  long, 
flexible,  India  rubber  tube,  and  pump !  pump !  pump ! 
went  the  doctor's  hand  at  the  other  end.  The  result  was 
very  palpable.  About  a  pint  of  reddish  fluid,  strongly 
smelling  of  wine,  came  up,  after  which  the  instrument  was 
withdrawn. 

"  There,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  guess  that  will  do.  Now 
let  me  give  you  an  antidote."  And  a  nauseous  dose  of 
something  or  other  was  mixed  up  and  poured  down,  to 
take  the  place  of  what  had  just  been  removed. 

"  Do  you  feel  any  better  now  ?"  inquired  the  doctor,  as 
he  sat  holding  the  pulse  of  the  sick  man,  and  scanning, 
with  a  professional  eye,  his  pale  face,  that  was  covered  with 
a  clammy  perspiration. 

"  A  little,"  was  the  faint  reply.  "  Do  you  think  all 
danger  is  past?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  The  antidote  I  have  given  you  will 
neutralize  the  effect  of  the  drug,  as  far  as  it  has  passed  into 
the  system." 

"  I  feel  as  weak  as  a  rag,"  said  the  patient.  "  I  am 
sure  I  could  not  bear  my  own  weight.  What  a  powerful 
effect  it  had  !" 

"  Don't  think  of  it,"  returned  the  doctor.  "  Compose 
yourself.  There  is  now  no  danger  to  be  apprehended  what 
ever." 

The  wild  flight  of  Jane  through  the  street,  and  the 
hurried  movements  of  the  doctor,  did  not  fail  to  attract 
attention.  Inquiry  followed,  and  it  soon  became  noised 
about  that  Mr.  Jones  had  taken  poison. 

Mr.  Smith  was  just  stepping  into  his  wagon,  when  a 
man  came  up  and  said  to  him, 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?" 

"  What  news  ?" 

"  Mr.  Jones  has  taken  poison !" 

"  What  ?" 

"  Poison !" 

"  Who !     Mr.  Jones  ?" 

"  Yes.     And  they  say  he  cannot  live." 

"  Dreadful !  I  must  see  him."  And  without  waiting 
for  further  information,  Mr.  Smith  spoke  to  his  horse  and 
rode  off  at  a  gallop  for  the  residence  of  his  friend.  Mrs. 
Jones  met  him  at  the  door,  looking  very  anxious. 


]48  TAKING    TOLL. 

"  How  is  he  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Smith,  in  a  serious  voice. 

"  A  little  better,  I  thank  you.  The  doctor  has  taken  it 
all  out  of  his  stomach.  Will  you  walk  up  ?" 

Mr.  Smith  ascended  to  the  chamber  where  lay  Mr.  Jones, 
looking  as  white  as  a  sheet.  The  doctor  was  still  by  his 
side. 

"  Ah  !  my  friend,"  said  the  sick  man,  in  a  feeble  voice, 
as  Mr.  Smith  took  his  hand,  "  that  antimonial  wine  of 
yours  has  nearly  been  the  death  of  me." 

"  What  antimonial  wine?"  inquired  Mr.  Smith,  not  un 
derstanding  his  friend. 

"  The  wine  you  left  here  in  the  gallon  demijohn." 

"  That  wasn't  antimonial  wine !" 

"  It  was  not  ?"  fell  from  the  lips  of  both  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Jones. 

"  Why,  no !  It  was  only  wine  that  I  had  bought  for  the 
purpose  of  making  antimonial  wine." 

Mr.  Jones  rose  up  in  bed. 

"  Not  antimonial  wine  ?" 

"No!" 

"  Why  the  boy  said  it  was." 

"  Then  he  didn't  know  any  thing  about  it.  It  was  no 
thing  but  some  common  wine  which  I  had  bought." 

Mr.  Jones  took  a  long  breath.  The  doctor  arose  from 
the  bedside,  and  Mr.  Jones  exclaimed, 

"Well,  I  never!" 

Then  came  a  grave  silence,  in  which  one  looked  at  the 
other,  doubtingly. 

"  Good-day ;"  said  the  doctor,  and  went  down  stairs. 

"  So  you  have  been  drinking  my  wine,  it  seems,"  laughed 
Mr.  Smith,  as  soon  as  the  man  with  the  stomach  pump  had 
retired. 

"  I  only  took  a  little  toll,"  said  Mr.  Jones,  back  into 
whose  pale  face  the  color  was  beginning  to  come,  and 
through  whose  almost  paralyzed  nerves  was  again  flowing 
from  the  brain  a  healthy  influence.  "  But  don't  say  any 
thing  about  it!  Don't  for  the  world !" 

"I  won't,  on  one  condition,"  said  Mr.  Smith,  whose 
words  were  scarcely  coherent,  so  strongly  was  he  convulsed 
with  laughter. 

"  What  is  that  ?" 

"  You  must  become  a  teetotaller." 


TAKING    TOLL.  149 

"  Can't  do  that,"  jeplied  Mr.  Jones. 

"  Give  me  a  day  or  two  to  make  up  my  mind." 

"  Very  well.  And  now,  good  bye ;  the  sun  is  nearly 
down,  and  it  will  be  night  before  I  get  home." 

And  Mr.  Smith  shook  hands  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jones, 
and  hurriedly  retired,  trying,  but  in  vain,  to  leave  the 
house  in  a  grave  and  dignified  manner.  Long  before  Mr. 
Jones  had  made  up  his  mind  to  join  the  teetotallers,  the 
story  of  his  taking  toll  was  all  over  the  town,  and  for  the 
next  two  or  three  months  he  had  his  own  time  of  it.  After 
that,  it  became  an  old  story. 


"THOU  ART  THE  MAN!" 

"  How  can  you  reconcile  it  to  your  conscience  to  con 
tinue  in  your  present  business,  Mr.  Muddler  ?"  asked  a 
venerable  clergyman  of  a  tavern-keeper,  as  the  two  walked 
home  from  the  funeral  of  a  young  man  who  had  died 
suddenly. 

"  I  find  no  difficulty  on  that  score,"  replied  the  tavern- 
keeper,  in  a  confident  tone :  "  My  business  is  as  neces 
sary  to  the  public  as  that  of  any  other  man." 

"  That  branch  of  it,  which  regards  the  comfort  and  ac 
commodation  of  travellers,  I  will  grant  to  be  necessary. 
But  there  is  another  portion  of  it  which,  you  must  pardon 
me  for  saying,  is  not  only  uncalled  for  by  the  real  wants 
of  the  community,  but  highly  detrimental  to  health  and 
good  morals." 

"  And  pray,  Mr.  Mildman,  to  what  portion  of  my  busi 
ness  do  you  ailude  ?" 

"  I  allude  to  that  part  of  it  which  embraces  the  sale  of 
intoxicating  drinks." 

"  Indeed !  the  very  best  part  of  my  business.  But,  cer 
tainly,  you  do  not  pretend  to  say  that  I  am  to  be  held 
accountable  for  the  unavoidable  excesses  which  sometimes 
grow  out  of  the  use  of  liquors  as  a  beverage?" 

"  I  certainly  must  say,  that,  in  my  opinion,  a  very  large 
share  of  the  responsibility  rests  upon  your  shoulders.  You 
not  only  make  it  a  business  to  sell  liquors,  but  you  use 
every  device  in  your  power  to  induce  men  to  come  and 
drink  them.  You  invent  hew  compounds  with  new  and 
attractive  names,  in  order  to  induce  the  indifferent  or  the 
lovers  of  variety,  to  frequent  your  bar-room.  In  this  way, 
you  too  often  draw  the  weak  into  an  excess  of  self-indul 
gence,  that  ends,  alas !  in  drunkenness  and  final  ruin  of 
body  and  soul.  You  are  not  only  responsible  for  all  this, 
Mr.  Muddler,  but  you  bear  the  weight  of  a  fearful  re 
sponsibility  !" 

"  I  cannot  see  the  subject  in  that  light,  Mr.  Mildman," 
the  tavern-keeper  said,  rather  gravely.  "  Mine  is  an 
honest  and  honourable  calling,  and  it  is  my  duty  to  my 

(150) 


"THOU  ART   THE   MAN!"  151 

family  and  to  society,  to  follow  it  with  diligence  and  a 
spirit  of  enterprise." 

"  May  I  ask  you  a  plain  question,  Mr.  Muddler?" 

"  Oh  yes,  certainly  !  as  many  as  you  please." 

"  Can  that  calling  be  an  honest  and  honourable  one 
which  takes  sustenance  from  the  community,  and  gives 
back  nothing  in  return  ?' 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  understand  the  nature  of  your 
question,  Mr.  Mildman." 

"  Consider  then  society  as  a  man  in  a  larger  form,  as  it 
really  is.  In  this  great  body,  as  in  the  lesser  body  of 
man,  there  are  various  functions  of  use  and  a  reciprocity 
between  the  whole.  Each  function  receives  a  portion  of 
life  from  the  others,  and  gives  back  its  own  proper  share 
for  the  good  of  the  whole.  The  hand  does  not  act  for 
itself  alone — receiving  strength  and  selfishly  appropriating 
it  without  returning  its  quota  of  good  to  the  general  sys 
tem.  And  so  of  the  heart,  and  lungs,  and  every  other 
organ  in  the  whole  body.  Reverse  the  order — and  how 
soon  is  the  entire  system  diseased  !  Now,  does  that  mem 
ber  of  the  great  body  of  the  people  act  honestly  and 
honourably,  who  regularly  receives  his  portion  of  good 
from  the  general  social  system,  and  gives  nothing  back  in 
return  ?" 

To  this  the  landlord  made  no  reply,  and  Mr.  Mildman 
continued — 

"  But  there  is  still  a  stronger  view  to  be  taken.  Sup 
pose  a  member  of  the  human  body  is  diseased — a  limb, 
for  instance,  in  a  partial  state  of  mortification.  Here  there 
is  a  reception  of  life  from  the  whole  system  into  that  limb, 
and  a  constant  giving  back  of  disease  that  gradually  per 
vades  the  entire  body ;  and,  unless  that  body  possesses 
extraordinary  vital  energy,  in  the  end  destroys  it.  In  like 
manner,  if  in  the  larger  body  there  be  one  member  who 
takes  his  share  of  life  from  the  whole,  and  gives  back 
nothing  but  a  poisonous  principle,  whose  effect  is  disease 
and  death,  surely  he  cannot  be  called  a  good  member — 
nor  honest,  nor  honourable." 

"  And  pray,  Mr.  Mildman,"  asked  the  tavern-keeper, 
with  warmth,  "  where  will  you  find,  in  society,  such  an 
ndividual  as  you  describe  ?" 
The  minister  paused  at  this  question,  and  looked  his 


152  "THOU    ART   THE    MAN!" 

companion  steadily  in  the  face.  Then  raising  his  long, 
thin  finger  to  give  force  to  his  remark,  he  said  with  deep 
emphasis — 

"  Thou  art  the  man  !" 

"  Me,  Mr.  Mildman  !  me !"  exclaimed  the  tavern-keeper, 
in  surprise  and  displeasure.  "  You  surely  cannot  be  in 
earnest." 

"  I  utter  but  a  solemn  truth,  Mr.  Muddler:  such  is  your 
position  in  society !  You  receive  food,  and  clothing,  and 
comforts  and  luxuries  of  various  kinds  for  yourself  and 
family  from  the  social  body,  and  what  do  you  give  back 
for  all  these  1  A  poison  to  steal  away  the  health  and  hap 
piness  of  that  social  body.  You  are  far  worse  than  a  per 
fectly  dead  member — you  exist  upon  the  great  body  as  a 
moral  gangrene.  Reflect  calmly  upon  this  subject.  Go 
home,  and  in  the  silence  of  your  own  chamber,  enter  into 
unimpassioned  and  solemn  communion  with  your  heart. 
Be  honest  with  yourself.  Exclude  the  bias  of  selfish  feel 
ings  and  selfish  interests,  and  honestly  define  to  yourself 
your  true  position." 

"  But,  Mr.  Mildman " 

The  two  men  had  paused  nearly  in  front  of  Mr.  Mud 
dler's  splendid  establishment,  and  were  standing  there 
when  the  tavern-keeper  commenced  a  reply  to  the  min 
ister's  last  remarks.  He  had  uttered  but  the  first  word  or 
two,  when  he  was  interrupted  by  a  pale,  thinly-dressed 
female,  who  held  a  little  girl  by  the  hand.  She  came  up 
before  him  and  looked  him.  steadily  in  the  face  for  a  mo 
ment  or  two. 

"  Mr.  Muddler,  I  believe,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  madam,  that  is  my  name,"  was  his  reply. 

"  I  have  come,  Mr.  Muddler,"  the  woman  then  said, 
with  an  effort  to  smile  and  affect  a  polite  air,  "  to  thank 
you  for  a  present  I  received  last  night." 

"  Thank  me,  madam  !  There  certainly  must  be  some 
mistake.  I  never  made  you  a  present.  Indeed,  I  have 
not  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance." 

"  You  said  your  name  was  Muddler,  I  believe?" 

"  Yes,  madam,  as  I  told  you  before,  that  is  my  name  " 

"  Then  you  are  the  man.  You  made  my  little  girl,  here 
a  present 'also,  and  we  have  both  come  w'ith  our  thanks.*1 

"  You  deal  in  riddles,  madam,     Speak  out  plainly." 


"THOU  ART    THE   MAN!"  153 

"  As  I  said  before,"  the  woman  replied,  with  bitter  irony 
in  her  tones,  "  I  have  come  with  my  little  girl  to  thank 
you  for  the  present  we  received  last  night ; — a  present  of 
wretchedness  and  abuse." 

"  I  am  still  as  far  from  understanding  you  as  ever,"  the 
tavern-keeper  said — "  I  never  abused  you,  madam.  I  do 
not  even  know  you." 

"  But  you  know  my  husband,  sir !  You  have  enticed 
him  to  your  bar,  and  for  his  money  have  given  him  a 
poison  that  has  changed  him  from  one  of  the  best  and 
kindest  of  men,  into  a  demon.  To  you,  then,  I  owe  all 
the  wretchedness  I  have  suffered,  and  the  brutal  treat 
ment  I  shared  with  my  helpless  children  last  night.  It  is 
for  this  that  I  have  come  to  thank  yon." 

"  Surely,  madam,  you  must  be  beside  yourself.  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  your  husband." 

"  Nothing  to  do  with  him  !"  the  woman  exclaimed,  in  an 
excited  tone.  "  Would  to  heaven  that  it  were  so  !  Before 
you  opened  your  accursed  gin  palace,  he  was  a  sober 
man,  and  the  best  and  kindest  of  husbands — but,  enticed  by 
you,  your  advertisement  and  display  of  fancy  drinks,  he 
was  tempted  within  the  charmed  circle  of  your  bar-room. 
From  that  moment  began  his  downfall ;  and  now  he  is 
lost  to  self-control — lost  to  feeling — lost  to  humanity !" 

As  the  woman  said  this,  she  burst  into  tears,  and  then 
turned  and  walked  slowly  away. 

"  To  that  painful  illustration  of  the  truth  of  what  I  have 
said,"  the  minister  remarked,  as  the  two  stood  once  more 
alone,  "  I  have  nothing  to  add.  May  the  lesson  sink  deep 
into  your  heart.  Between  you  and  that  woman's  husband 
existed  a  regular  business  transaction.  Did  it  result  in  a 
mutual  benefit  1  Answer  that  question  to  your  own  con 
science." 

How  the  tavern-keeper  answered  it,  we  know  not.  But 
if  he  received  no  benefit  from  the  double  lesson,  we  trust 
that  others  may ;  and  in  the  hope  that  the  practical  truth 
we  have  endeavoured  briefly  to  illustrate,  will  fall  some 
where  upon  good  ground,  we  cast  it  forth  for  the  benefit 
of  our  fellow-men. 

19 


THE  TOUCHING  REPROOF. 


"  HERE,  Jane,"  said  a  father  to  his  little  girl  not  over 
eleven  years  of  age,  "  go  over  to  the  shop  and  buy  me  a 
pint  of  brandy." 

At  the  same  time  he  handed  her  a  quarter  of  a  dollar. 
The  child  took  the  money  and  the  bottle,  and  as  she  did 
so,  looked  her  father  in  the  face  with  an  earnest,  sad  ex 
pression.  But  he  did  not  seem  to  observe  it,  although  he 
perceived  it,  and  felt  it;  for  he  understood  its  meaning. 
The  little  girl  lingered,  as  if  reluctant,  from  some  reason, 
to  go  on  her  errand. 

"  Did  you  hear  what  I  said  ?"  the  father  asked,  angrily, 
and  with  a  frowning  brow,  as  he  observed  this. 

Jane  glided  from  the  room  and  went  over  to  the  shop, 
hiding,  as  she  passed  through  the  street,  the  bottle  under 
her  apron.  There  she  obtained  the  liquor,  and  returned 
with  it  in  a  few  minutes.  As  she  reached  the  bottle  to 
her  father,  she  looked  at  him  again  with  the  same  sad, 
earnest  look,  which  he  observed.  It  annoyed  and  anger 
ed  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  looking  at  me  in  that  way  ? 
Ha !"  he  said,  in  a  loud,  angry  tone. 

Jane  shrunk  away,  and  passed  into  the  next  room, 
where  her  mother  lay  sick.  She  had  been  sick  for  some 
time,  and  as  they  were  poor,  and  her  husband  given  to 
drink,  she  had  sorrow  and  privation  added  to  her  bodily 
sufferings.  As  her  little  girl  came  in,  she  went  up  to  the 
side  of  her  bed,  and,  bending  over  it,  leaned  her  head 
upon  her  hand.  She  did  not  make  any  remark,  nor  did 
her  mother  speak  to  her,  until  she  observed  the  tears 
trickling  through  her  fingers. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  1"  she  then  asked,  ten 
derly.  S~* 

The  little  girl  raised  her  hasra,  endeavouring  to  dry  up 
her  tears  as  she  did  so.  / 

(154) 


THE     TOUCHING     REPROOF.  155 

*«  I  feel  so  bad,  mother,"  she  replied. 

"  And  why  do  you  feel  bad,  my  child  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  always  feel  so  bad  when  father  sends  me  over 
to  the  shop  for  brandy ;  and  I  had  to  go  just  now.  I 
wanted  to  ask  him  to  buy  you  some  nice  grapes  and 
oranges  with  the  quarter  of  a  dollar — they  would  taste  so 
good  to  you — but  he  seemed  to  know  what  I  was  going 
to  say,  and  looked  at  me  so  cross  that  I  was  afraid  to 
speak.  I  wish  he  would  not  drink  any  more  brandy.  It 
makes  him  cross ;  and  then  how  many  nice  things  he 
might  buy  for  you  with  the  money  it  takes  for  liquor." 

The  poor  mother  had  no  words  of  comfort  to  offer  her 
little  girl,  older  in  thought  than  in  years ;  for  no  comfort 
did  she  herself  feel  in  view  of  the  circumstances  that 
troubled  her  child.  She  only  said — laying  her  hand  upon 
the  child's  head — 

"  Try  and  not  think  about  it,  my  dear ;  it  only  troubles 
you,  and  your  trouble  cannot  make  it  any  better." 

But  Jane  could  not  help  thinking  about  it,  try  as  hard 
as  she  would.  She  went  to  a  Sabbath  school,  in  which 
a  Temperance  society  had  been  formed,  and  every  Sab 
bath  she  heard  the  subject  of  intemperance  discussed,  and 
its  dreadful  consequences  detailed.  But  more  than  all 
this,  she  had  the  daily  experience  of  a  drunkard's  child. 
In  this  experience,  how  much  of  heart-touching  misery 
was  involved  !  —  how  much  of  privation  —  how  much  of 
the  anguish  of  a  bruised  spirit.  Who  can  know  the 
weight  that  lies,  like  a  heavy  burden,  upon  the  heart  of  a 
drunkard's  child!  None  but  the  child  —  for  language  is 
powerless  to  convey  it. 

On  the  next  morning,  the  father  of  little  Jane  went 
away  to  his  work,  and  she  was  left  alone  with  her  mother 
and  her  younger  sister.  They  were  very  poor,  and  could 
not  afford  to  employ  any  one  to  do  the  house-work,  and 
so,  young  as  she  was,  while  her  mother  was  sick,  Jane 
had  everything  to  do :  —  the  cooking,  and  cleaning,  and 
even  the  washing  and  ironing  —  a  hard  task,  indeed,  for 
her  little  hands.  But  she  never  murmured — never  seemed 
to  think  that  she  was  overburdened.  How  cheerfully 
would  all  have  been  done,  if  her  father's  smiles  had  only 
fallen  like  sunshine  upon  her  heart !  But  that  face,  into 
which  her  eyes  looked  so  often  and  so  anxiously,  was 


156  THE     TOUCHING     REPROOF. 

ever  hid  in  clouds — clouds  arising  from  the  consciousness 
that  he  was  abusing  his  family  while  seeking  his  own  base 
gratification,  and  from  perceiving  the  evidences  of  his 
evil  works  stamped  on  all  things  around  him. 

As  Jane  passed  frequently  through  her  mother's  room 
during  the  morning,  pausing  almost  every  time  to  ask  if 
she  wanted  anything ;  she  saw,  too  plainly,  that  she  was 
not  as  well  as  on  the  day  before  —  that  she  had  a  high 
fever,  indicated  to  her  by  her  hot  skin  and  constant  re 
quest  for  cool  water. 

"  I  wish  I  had  an  orange,"  the  poor  woman  said,  as 
Jane  came  up  to  her  bed-side,  for  the  twentieth  time,  "  it 
would  taste  so  good  to  me." 

She  had  been  thinking  about  an  orange  all  the  morn 
ing  ;  and  notwithstanding  her  effort  to  drive  the  thought 
from  her  mind,  the  form  of  an  orange  would  ever  picture 
itself  before  her,  and  its  grateful  flavour  ever  seem  about 
to  thrill  upon  her  taste.  At  last  she  uttered  her  wish  — 
not  so  much  with  the  hope  of  having  it  gratified,  as  from 
an  involuntary  impulse  to  speak  out  her  desire. 

There  was  not  a  single  cent  in  the  house,  for  the  father 
rarely  trusted  his  wife  with  money — he  could  not  confide 
in  her  judicious  expenditure  of  it ! 

"Let  me  go  and  buy  you  an  orange,  mother,"  Jane 
said ;  "  they  have  oranges  at  the  shop." 

"  I  have  no  change,  my  dear ;  and  if  I  had,  I  should 
not  think  it  right  to  spend  four  or  five  cents  for  an  orange, 
when  we  have  so  little.  Get  me  a  cool  drink  of  water ; 
that  will  do  now." 

Jane  brought  the  poor  sufferer  a  glass  of  cool  water, 
and  she  drank  it  off  eagerly.  Then  she  lay  back  upon 
her  pillow  with  a  sigh,  and  her  little  girl  went  out  to 
attend  to  the  household  duties  that  devolved  upon  her. 
But  all  the  while  Jane  thought  of  the  orange,  and  of  how 
she  should  get  it  for  her  mother. 

When  her  father  came  nome  to  dinner,  he  looked 
crosser  than  he  did  in  the  morning.  He  sat  down  to  the 
table  and  eat  his  dinner  in  moody  silence,  and  then  arose 
to  depart,  without  so  much  as  asking  after  his  sick 
wife,  or  going  into  her  chamber.  As  he  moved  towards 
the  door,  his  hat  already  on  his  head,  Jane  went  up  to 


THE     TOUCHING     REPROOF.  157 

him,  and  looking  timidly  in  his  face,  said,  with  a  hesita 
ting  voice — 

"  Mother  wants  an  orange  so  bad.  Won't  you  give 
me  some  money  to  buy  her  one  ?" 

"  No,  I  will  not !  Your  mother  had  better  be  thinking 
about  something  else  than  wasting  money  for  oranges !" 
was  the  angry  reply,  as  the  father  passed  out,  and  shut 
the  door  hard  after  him. 

Jane  stood  for  a  moment,  frightened  at  the  angry  vehe 
mence  of  her  father,  and  then  burst  into  tears.  She  said 
nothing  to  her  mother  of  what  had  passed,  but  after  the 
agitation  of  her  mind  had  somewhat  subsided,  began  to 
cast  about  in  her  thoughts  for  some  plan  by  which  she 
might  obtain  an  orange.  At  last  it  occurred  to  her,  that 
at  the  shop  where  she  got  liquor  for  her  father,  they 
bought  rags  and  old  iron. 

"  How  much  do  you  give  a  pound  for  rags  1"  she  asked, 
in  a  minute  or  two  after  the  idea  had  occurred  to  her, 
standing  at  the  counter  of  the  shop. 

"  Three  cents  a  pound,"  was  the  reply. 

"  How  much  for  old  iron  ?" 

"  A  cent  a  pound." 

"What's  the  price  of  them  oranges?" 

"  Four  cents  apiece." 

With  this  information,  Jane  hurried  back.  After  she 
had  cleared  away  the  dinner-table,  she  went  down  into 
the  cellar  and  looked  up  all  the  old  bits  of  iron  that  she 
could  find.  Then  she  searched  the  yard,  and  found  some 
eight  or  ten  rusty  nails,  an  old  bolt,  and  a  broken  hinge. 
These  she  laid  away  in  a  little  nook  in  the  cellar.  After 
wards  she  gathered  together  all  the  old  rags  that  she 
could  find  about  the  house,  and  in  the  cellar,  and  laid 
them  with  her  old  iron.  But  she  saw  plainly  enough  that 
her  iron  would  not  weigh  over  two  pounds,  nor  her  rags 
over  a  quarter  of  a  pound.  If  time  would  have  permit 
ted,  she  would  have  gone  into  the  street  to  look  for  old 
iron,  but  this  she  could  not  do ;  and  disappointed  at  not 
being  able  to  get  the  orange  for  her  mother,  she  went 
about  her  work  during  the  afternoon  with  sad  and 
desponding  thoughts  and  feelings. 

It  was  summer  time,  and  her  father  came  home  from 
his  work  before  it  was  dark. 


158  THE     TOUCHING     REPROOF. 

"  Go  and  get  me  a  pint  of  brandy,"  he  said  to  Jane,  in 
a  tone  that  sounded  harsh  and  angry  to  the  child,  hand 
ing  her  at  the  same  time  a  quarter  of  a  dollar.  Since 
the  day  before  he  had  taken  a  pint  of  brandy,  and  none 
but  the  best  would  suit  him. 

She  took  the  money  and  the  bottle,  and  went  over  to 
the  shop.  Wistfully  she  looked  at  the  tempting  oranges 
in  the  window,  as  she  gave  the  money  for  the  liquor,  and 
thought  how  glad  her  poor  mother  would  be  to  have  one. 

As  she  was  hurrying  back,  she  saw  a  thick  rusty  iron 
ring  lying  in  the  street :  she  picked  it  up,  and  kept  on  her 
way.  It  felt  heavy,  and  her  heart  bounded  with  the 
thought  that  now  she  could  buy  the  orange  for  her  mo 
ther.  The  piece  of  old  iron  was  dropped  in  the  yard,  as 
she  passed  through.  After  her  father  had  taken  a  dram, 
he  sat  down  to  his  supper.  While  he  was  eating  it,  Jane 
went  into  the  cellar  and  brought  out  into  the  yard  her 
little  treasure  of  scrap  iron.  As  she  passed  backwards 
and  forwards  before  the  door  facing  which  her  father  sat, 
he  observed  her,  and  felt  a  sudden  curiosity  to  know  what 
she  was  doing.  He  went  softly  to  the  window,  and  as  he 
did  so,  he  saw  her  gathering  the  iron,  which  she  had 
placed  in  a  little  pile,  into  her  apron.  Then  she  rose  up 
quickly,  and  passed  out  of  the  yard-gate  into  the  street. 

The  father  went  back  to  his  supper,  but  his  appetite 
was  gone.  There  was  that  in  the  act  of  his  child,  simple 
as  it  was,  that  moved  his  feelings,  in  spite  of  himself.  All 
at  once  he  thought  of  the  orange  she  had  asked  for  her 
mother ;  and  he  felt  a  conviction  that  it  was  to  buy  an 
orange  that  Jane  was  now  going  to  sell  the  iron  she  had 
evidently  been  collecting  since  dinner-time. 

"  How  selfish  and  wicked  I  am !"  he  said  to  himself, 
almost  involuntarily. 

In  a  few  minutes  Jane  returned,  and  with  her  hand 
under  her  apron,  passed  through  the  room  where  he  sat 
into  her  mother's  chamber.  An  impulse,  almost  irresisti 
ble,  caused  him  to  follow  her  in  a  few  moments  after. 

"  It  is  so  grateful !"  he  heard  his  wife  say,  as  he  opened 
the  door. 

On  entering  her  chamber,  he  found  her  sitting  up  in  bed 
eating  the  orange,  while  little  Jane  stood  by  her  looking 
into  her  face  with  an  air  of  subdued,  yet  heartfelt  grati« 


THE     TOUCHING     REPROOF.  ]59 

fication.  All  this  he  saw  at  a  glance,  yet  did  not  seem 
to  see,  for  he  pretended  to  be  searching  for  something, 
which,  apparently  obtained,  he  left  the  room  and  the 
nouse,  with  feelings  of  acute  pain  and  self-upbraidings. 

"  Come,  let  us  go  and  see  these  cold-water  men,"  said 
a  companion,  whom  he  met  a  few  steps  from  his  own 
door.  "  They  are  carrying  all  the  world  before  them." 

"  Very  well,  come  along." 

And  the  two  men  bent  their  steps  towards  Temperance 
Hall. 

When  little  Jane's  father  turned  from  the  door  of  that 
place,  his  name  was  signed  to  the  pledge,  and  his  heart 
fixed  to  abide  by  it.  On  his  way  home,  he  saw  some 
grapes  in  a  window, —  he  bought  some  of  them,  and  a 
couple  of  oranges  and  lemons.  When  he  came  home,  he 
went  into  his  wife's  chamber,  and  opening  the  paper  that 
contained  the  first  fruits  of  his  sincere  repentance,  laid 
them  before  her,  and  said,  with  tenderness,  while  the 
moisture  dimmed  his  eyes — 

"  I  thought  these  would  taste  good  to  you,  Mary,  and 
so  I  bought  them." 

"  O,  William  !"  and  the  poor  wife  started,  and  looked 
up  into  her  husband's  face  with  an  expression  of  surprise 
and  trembling  hope. 

" Mary," —  and  he  took  her  hand,  tenderly  —  "I  have 
signed  the  pledge  to-night,  and  I  will  keep  it,  by  the  help 
of  Heaven !" 

The  sick  wife  raised  herself  up  quickly,  and  bent  over 
towards  her  husband,  eagerly  extending  her  hands.  Then, 
as  he  drew  his  arm  around  her,  she  let  her  head  fall  upon 
his  bosom,  with  an  emotion  of  delight,  such  as  had  not 
moved  over  the  surface  of  her  stricken  heart  for  years. 

The  pledge  taken  was  the  total-abstinence  pledge,  and 
it  has  never  been  violated  by  him,  and  what  is  better,  we 
are  confident  never  will.  How  much  of  human  hope  and 
happiness  is  involved  in  that  simple  pledge ! 


THE    TEMPERANCE    SONG. 


"  DEAR  father,"  said  Mary  Edwards,  "  don't  go  out 
this  evening !"  and  the  young  girl,  who  had  scarcely  num 
bered  fourteen  years,  laid  her  hand  upon  the  arm  of  her 
parent. 

But  Mr.  Edwards  shook  her  off  impatiently,  muttering, 
as  he  did  so, 

"  Can't  I  go  where  I  please  ?" 

"  0 !  yes,  father !"  urged  Mary,  drawing  up  to  him 
again,  notwithstanding  her  repulse.  "  But  there  is  going 
to  be  a  storm,  and  I  wouldn't  go  out." 

"  Storm  !  Nonsense !  That's  only  your  pretence.  But 
I'll  be  home  soon — long  before  the  rain,  if  it  comes  at  all." 

And,  saying  this,  Mr.  Edwards  turned  from  his  daughter 
and  left  the  house.  As  soon  as  she  was  alone,  Mary  sat 
down  and  commenced  weeping.  There  had  been  sad 
changes  since  she  was  ten  years  old.  In  that  time,  her 
father  had  fallen  into  habits  of  intemperance,  and  not  only 
wasted  his  substance,  but  abused  his  family ;  and,  sadder 
still,  her  mother  had  died  broken-hearted,  leaving  her  alone 
in  the  world  with  a  drunken  father. 

The  young  girl's  trials,  under  these  painful  circumstances, 
were  great.  Night  after  night  her  father  would  come  home 
intoxicated,  and  it  was  so  rare  a  thing  for  her  to  get  a  kind 
word  from  him,  that  a  tone  of  affection  from  his  lips  would 
move  her  instantly  to  tears.  Daily  the  work  of  declension 
went  on.  Drunkenness  led  to  idleness,  and  gradually  Mr. 
Edwards  and  his  child  sunk  lower  and  lower  in  the  scale 
of  comfort.  The  pleasant  home  where  they  had  lived  for 
years  was  given  up,  and  in  small,  poorly  furnished  rooms, 
in  a  narrow  street,  they  hid  themselves  from  observation. 
After  this  change,  Mr.  Edwards  moved  along  his  downward 
way,  more  rapidly ;  earning  less  and  drinking  more. 

Mary  grew  old  fast.  Under  severe  trials  and  afflictions, 
her  mind  rapidly  matured  ;  and  her  affection  for  her  father 
grew  stronger  and  stronger,  as  she  realized  more  and  more 
160 


THE     TEMPERANCE     SONG.  161 

fully  the  dreadful  nature  and  ultimate  tendency  of  the  in 
fatuation  by  which  he  was  led. 

At  last,  in  the  anguish  of  her  concern,  she  ventured  up 
on  remonstrance.  This  brought  only  angry  repulse,  adding 
bitterness  to  her  cup  of  sorrow.  The  appearance  of  a 
storm,  on  the  evening  to  which  we  have  alluded,  gave 
Mary  an  excuse  for  urging  her  father  not  to  go  out.  How 
her  remonstrance  was  received  has  been  seen.  While  the 
poor  girl  sat  weeping,  the  distant  rolling  of  thunder  indicated 
the  approach  of  the  storm  to  which  she  had  referred.  But 
she  cared  little  for  it  now.  Her  father  had  gone  out.  She 
had  spoken  of  it  only  with  the  hope  that  he  might  have 
been  induced  to  remain  with  her.  Now  that  he  was  away, 
the  agitation  within  was  too  great  to  leave  any  concern  for 
the  turbulent  elements  without. 

On  leaving  his  home,  Mr.  Edwards,  who  had  not  taken 
any  liquor  for  three  or  four  hours,  and  whose  appetite  was 
sharp  for  the  accustomed  stimulus,  walked  quickly  in  the 
direction  of  a  drinking-house  where  he  usually  spent  his 
evenings.  On  entering,  he  found  that  there  was  a  little 
commotion  in  the  bar-room.  A  certain  individual,  not  over 
friendly  to  landlords,  had  intruded  himself;  and,  his  charac 
ter  being  known,  the  inmates  were  disposed  to  have  a  little 
sport  with  him. 

"  Come  now,  old  fellow !"  said  one,  just  as  Edwards 
came  in,  "  mount  this  table  and  make  us  a  first  rate 
temperance  speech." 

"  Do ;  and  I'll  treat  you  to  the  stiffest  glass  of  whisky 
toddy  the  landlord  can  mix,"  added  another.  "  Or  perhaps 
you'd  like  a  mint  julep  or  gin  cocktail  better?  Any  thing 
you  please.  Make  the  speech  and  call  for  the  liquor.  I'll 
stand  the  treat." 

"  What  d'ye  say,  landlord  ?  Shall  he  make  the  speech  ?" 
said  another,  who  was  eager  for  sport. 

"  Please  yourselves,"  replied  the  landlord,  "  and  you'll 
please  me." 

"  Very  well.  Now  for  the  speech,  old  fellow !  Here ! 
mount  this  table."  And  two  or  three  of  the  most  forward 
took  hold  of  his  arms. 

"  I'm  not  just  in  the  humor  for  making  a  speech,"  said 
the  temperance  man,  "  but,  if  it  will  please  you  as  well, 
I'll  sing  you  a  song." 

20 


162  THE    TEMPERANCE     SONG. 

"Give  us  a  song  then.  Any  thing  to  accommodate.  But 
come,  let's  liquor  first." 

"  No  !"  said  the  other  firmly,  "  I  must  sing  the  song  first, 
if  I  sing  it  at  all." 

"  Don't  you  think  your  pipes  \vill  be  clearer  for  a  little 
drink  of  some  kind  or  other." 

"  Perhaps  they  would,"  was  replied.  "  So,  provided 
you  have  no  objection,  I'll  take  a  glass  of  cold  water — if 
such  a  thing  is  known  in  this  place." 

The  glass  of  water  was  presented,  and  then  the  man,  who 
was  somewhat  advanced  in  years,  prepared  to  give  the 
promised  song.  All  stood  listening  attentively,  Edwards 
among  the  rest.  The  voice  of  the  old  man  was  low  and 
tremulous,  yet  every  word  was  uttered  distinctly,  and  with 
a  pathos  which  showed  that  the  meaning  was  felt.  The 
following  well-known  temperance  song  was  the  one  that  he 
sung ;  and  while  his  voice  filled  the  bar-room  every  other 
sound  was  hushed. 

"  Where  are  the  friends  that  to  me  were  so  dear, 
Long,  long  ago — long,  long  ago  7 

Where  are  the  hopes  that  my  heart  used  to  cheer, 
Long,  long  ago — long  ago  ? 

Friends  that  I  loved  in  the  grave  arc  laid  low, 

Hopes  that  I  cherished  are  fled  from  me  now, 

I  am  degraded,  for  rum  was  my  foe- 
Long,  long  ago — long  ago  ! 

«  Sadly  my  wife  bowed  her  beautiful  head, 

Long,  long  ago — long,  long  ago. 
Oh !  how  I  wept  when  I  knew  she  was  dead  ! 

Long,  long  ago — long  ago. 
She  was  an  angel !  my  love  and  my  guide  ! 
Vainly  to  save  me  from  ruin  she  tried  ; 
Poor,  broken-hearted !  'twas  well  that  she  died-  -»j 

Long,  long  ago — long  ago. 

"  Let  me  look  back  on  the  days  of  my  youth, 

Long,  long  ago — long,  long  ago, 
I  was  no  stranger  to  virtue  and  truth, 

Long,  long  ago — long  ago. 
Oh !  for  the  hopes  that  were  pure  as  the  day ! 
Oh  !  for  the  joys  that  were  purer  than  they  ! 
Oh  !  for  the  hours  that  I've  squandered  away — 

Long,  long  ago — long  ago." 

The  silence  that  pervaded  the  room,  when  the  old  man's 


THE    TEMPERANCE    SONG.  163 

voice  died,  or  might  rather  be  said,  sobbed  away,  was  as 
the  silence  of  death.  His  own  heart  was  touched,  for  he 
wiped  his  eyes,  from  which  tears  had  started.  Pausing 
scarcely  a  moment,  he  moved  slowly  from  the  room,  and 
left  his  audience  to  their  own  reflections.  There  was  not 
one  of  them  who  was  not  more  or  less  affected ;  but  the 
deepest  impression  had  been  made  on  the  heart  of  Edwards. 
The  song  seemed  as  if  it  had  been  made  for  him.  The 
second  verse,  particularly,  went  thrilling  to  the  very  centre 
of  his  feelings. 

"  Sadly  my  wife  bowed  her  beautiful  head !" 

How  suddenly  arose  before  him  the  sorrow-stricken  form 
of  the  wife  of  his  youth  at  these  words !  and  when  the  old 
man's  voice  faltered  on  the  line — 

"  Poor,  broken-hearted !  'twas  well  that  she  died !" 

the  anguish  of  his  spirit  was  so  great,  that  he  only  kept 
himself  from  sobbing  aloud  by  a  strong  effort  at  self-con 
trol.  Ere  the  spell  was  broken,  or  a  word  uttered  by  any 
one,  he'  arose  and  left  the  house. 

For  many  minutes  after  her  father's  departure,  Mary  sat 
weeping  bitterly.  She  felt  hopeless  and  deserted  Ten 
derly  did  she  love  her  parent ;  but  this  love  was  only  a 
source  of  the  keenest  anguish,  for  she  saw  him  swiftly  pass 
ing  along  the  road  to  destruction  without  the  power  to 
save  him. 

Grief  wastes  itself  by  its  own  violence.  So  it  was  in 
this  instance.  The  tears  of  Mary  were  at  length  dried ; 
her  sobs  were  hushed,  and  she  was  about  rising  from  her 
chair,  when  a  blinding  flash  of  lightning  glared  into  the 
room,  followed  instantly  by  a  deafening  jar  of  thunder. 

"Oh,  if  father  were  home!"  she  murmured,  clasping  her 
hands  together. 

Even  while  she  stood  in  this  attitude,  the  door  opened 
quietly,  and  Mr.  Edwards  entered. 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  afraid,  Mary  ;  and  so  I  came 
home,"  said  he  in  a  kind  voice. 

Mary  looked  at  him  with  surprise.  This  was  soon 
changed  to  joy  as  she  perceived  that  he  was  perfectly 
sober. 

"  Oh,  father !"  she  sobbed,  unable  to  control  her  feelings, 


164  THE     TEMPERANCE     SONG. 

and  leaning  her  face  against  his  breast  as  she  spoke — "  if 
you  would  never  go  away !" 

Tenderly  the  father  drew  his  arm  around  his  weeping 
child,  and  kissed  her  pure  forehead. 

"Mary,"  said  he,  as  calmly  as  he  could  speak,  "for 
your  mother's  sake — "  but  he  could  not  finish  the  sen 
tence.  His  voice  quivered,  and  became  inarticulate. 

Solemnly,  in  the  silence  of  his  own  heart,  did  the  father, 
as  he  stood  thus  with  his  child  in  his  arms,  repeat  the 
vows  he  had  already  taken.  And  he  kept  his  vows. 

Wonderful  is  the  power  of  music !  It  is  the  heart's  own 
language,  and  speaks  to  it  in  a  voice  of  irresistible  per 
suasion.  It  is  a  good  gift  from  heaven,  and  should  ever  be 
used  in  a  good  cause. 


THE    DISTILLER'S    DREAM. 


FROM  the  time  Mr.  Andrew  Grim  opened  a  low  grog 
shop  near  the  Washington  Market,  until,  as  a  wealthy  dis 
tiller,  he  counted  himself  worth  a  hundred  thousand  dollars, 
every  thing  had  gone  on  smoothly  ;  and  now  he  might  be 
seen  among  the  money-lords  of  the  day,  as  self-complacent 
as  any.  He  had  stock,  houses,  and  lands :  and,  in  his 
mind,  these  made  up  life's  greatest  good.  And  had  he 
not  obtained  them  in  honest  trade  ?  Were  they  not  the 
reward  of  persevering  industry  ?  Mr.  Grim  felt  proud  of 
the  fact,  that  he  was  the  architect  of  his  own  fortunes. 
"How  many  had  started  in  life  side  by  side  with  him; 
and  yet  scarcely  one  in  ten  of  them  had  risen  above  the 
common  level." 

Thoughts  like  these  often  occupied  the  mind  of  Mr. 
Grim.  Such  were  his  thoughts  as  he  sat  in  his  luxurious 
parlor,  one  bleak  December  evening,  surrounded  by  every 
external  comfort  his  heart  could  desire,  when  a  child  not 
over  seven  or  eight  years  of  age  was  brought  into  the  room 
by  a  servant,  who  said,  as  he  entered — 

"  Here's  a  little  girl  that  says  she  wants  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Grim  turned,  and  looked  for  a  moment  or  two  at  the 
visitei .  She  was  the  child  of  poor  parents ;  that  was  evi 
dent  from  her  coarse  and  meager  garments. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  me  ?"  he  inquired,  in  a  voice  that 
was  meant  to  be  repulsive. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  timidly  answered  the  child. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?" 

"  My  mother  wants  you." 

"  Your  mother  !     Who's  your  mother  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Dyer." 

The  manner  of  Mr.  Grim  changed  instantly;  and  he 
said — 

"  Indeed !     What  does  your  mother  want  ?" 

"  Father  is  sick ;  and  mother  says  he  will  die." 

"  What  ails  your  father  ?" 

165 


166       THE   DISTILLER'S   DREAM. 

"  I  don't  know.  But  he's  been  sick  ever  since  yester 
day  ;  and  he  screams  out  so,  and  frightens  us  all." 

"  Where  does  your  mother  live  ?" 

The  child  gave  the  street  and  number. 

Mr.  Grim  walked  about  the  room  uneasily  for  some  time. 

"Didn't  your  mother  say  what  she  wanted  with  me?" 
he  asked  again,  pausing  before  the  little  girl,  whose  eyes 
had  been  following  all  his  movements. 

"  No,  sir.    But  she  cried  when  she  told  me  to  go  for  you." 

Mr.  Grim  moved  about  the  room  again  for  some  time. 
Then  stopping  suddenly,  he  said — 

"  Go  home  and  tell  your  mother  I'll  be  there  in  a  little 
while." 

The  child  retired  from  the  room,  and  Mr.  Grim  resumed 
his  perambulations,  his  eyes  upon  the  floor,  and  a  shadow 
resting  on  his  countenance.  After  the  lapse  of  nearly  half 
an  hour  he  went  into  the  hall,  and  drawing  on  a  warm 
overcoat,  started  forth  in  obedience-  to  what  was  evidently 
an  unwelcome  summons — for  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he 
descended  to  the  pavement — 

"  I  wish  people  would  take  care  of  what  they  get,  and 
learn  to  depend  on  themselves." 

Mr.  Grim  took  an  omnibus  and  rode  as  far  as  Canal 
street.  Down  Canal  street  he  walked  to  West  Broadway, 
and  along  West  Broadway  for  a  couple  of  blocks,  when  he 
stopped  before  an  old  brick  house  that  looked  as  if  it  had 
seen  service  for  at  least  a  hundred  years,  and  examined  the 
number. 

"  This  is  the  place,  I  suppose,"  said  he,  fretfully.  And 
he  stepped  back  and  looked  up  at  the  house.  Then  he 
approached  the  door,  and  searched  for  a  bell  or  knocker ; 
but  of  neither  of  these  appendages  could  the  dwelling  boast- 
First,  he  rapped  with  his  knuckles,  then  with  his  cane 
But  no  one  responded  to  the  summons.  He  looked  up  and 
saw  lights  in  the  window.  So  he  knocked  again,  and 
louder.  After  waiting  several  minutes,  and  not  being  ad 
mitted,  Mr.  Grim  tried  the  door  and  found  it  unfastened ; 
but  the  passage  into  which  he  stepped  was  dark  as  mid 
night.  After  knocking  on  the  floor  loudly  with  his  cane, 
a  door  opened  above,  a  gleam  of  light  fell  on  an  old  stair 
way,  and  a  rough  voice  called  out, 

"Who's  there?" 


THE   DISTILLER'S   DREAM.      167 

"  Does  Mr.  Dyer  live  here  ?" 

"  Besure  he  does !"  was  roughly  answered. 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  show  me  his  room  ?" 

"  You'll  find  it  in  the  third  story  back,"  said  the  voice, 
impatiently.  The  door  was  shut  again,  and  all  was  dark 
as  before. 

Mr.  Grim  stood  irresolute  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
commenced  groping  his  way  up  stairs,  slowly  and  cautious 
ly.  Just  as  he  gained  the  landing  on  the  second  flight,  a 
stifled  scream  was  heard  in  one  of  the  rooms  on  the  third 
floor,  followed  by  a  sudden  movement,  as  if  two  persons 
were  struggling  in  a  murderous  conflict.  He  stopped  and 
listened,  while  a  chill  went  over  him.  A  long  shuddering 
groan  followed,  and  then  all  was  still  again.  Mr.  Grim  was 
about  retreating,  when  a  door  opened,  and  the  child  who 
had  called  for  him  came  out  with  a  candle  in  her  hand. 
The  light  fell  upon  his  form  and  the  child  saw  him. 

"Oh!  mother!  mother!"  she  cried,  "Mr.  Grim  is 
here !" 

Instantly  the  form  of  a  woman  was  seen  in  the  door.  Her 
look  was  wild  and  distressed,  and  her  hair,  which  had  be 
come  loosened  from  the  comb,  lay  in  heavy  masses  upon 
her  shoulders. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Mary !  what  is  the  matter  ?"  ex 
claimed  Mr.  Grim,  as  he  approached  the  woman. 

"The  matter!"  She  looked  sternly  at  the  visiter. 
"  Come  and  see !"  And  she  pointed  into  the  room. 

A  cry  of  unutterable  distress  broke  upon  the  air,  and  the 
woman  sprang  back  quickly  into  the  room.  Mr.  Grim  hur 
ried  after  her.  By  the  feeble  light  of  a  single  poor  candle, 
he  saw  a  half-clothed  man  crouching  fearfully  in  a  corner 
of  the  room,  with  his  hands  raised  in  the  attitude  of  defence. 

"  Keep  off!  Keep  off,  I  say !"  he  cried,  despairingly. 
"  Oh !  oh !  oh !  It's  on  me,  Mary  !  Mary !  Oh !  Lord, 
help  me !  help  me  !" 

And  as  these  broken  sentences  fell  from  his  lips,  he 
shrunk  closer  and  closer  into  the  corner,  and  then  fell  for 
ward,  writhing  upon  the  floor.  By  this  time,  his  wife  was 
bending  down  over  him,  and  with  her  assuring  voice  she 
soon  succeeded  in  quieting  him. 

"  They've  all  gone  now,  Henry,"  said  she,  in  a  tone 


168       THE   DISTILLER'S   DREAM. 

of   cheerful    confidence,    assumed    at    what    an    effort! 
"I've  driven  them  away.    Come  !  lie  down  upon  the  bed." 

"  They're  under  the  bed,"  replied  the  sufferer,  glancing 
fearfully  around.  "Yes,  yes  !  There!  I  see  that  blackest 
devil  with  the  snake  in  his  hand.  He's  grinning  at  me 
from  behind  the  bed  post.  Now  he's  going  to  throw  his 
horrible  snake  at  me !  There !  oh — oh — oh — oh  !" 

The  fearful,  despairing  scream  that  issued  from  the  poor 
creature's  lips,  as  he  clung  to  his  wife,  curdled  the  very 
blood  in  the  veins  of  Mr.  Grim,  who  now  comprehended 
the  meaning  of  the  scene.  Dyer  and  his  wife  were  friends 
of  other  days.  With  the  latter  he  had  grown  up  from  child 
hood,  and  there  were  many  reasons  why  he  felt  an  interest 
in  her.  Her  husband  had  learned  drinking  and  idleness  in 
his  bar-room,  many  years  before  ;  and  more  than  once  dur 
ing  the  time  of  his  declension,  had  she  called  upon  Mr. 
Grim,  and  earnestly  besought  him  to  do  something  to  save 
the  one  she  loved  best  on  earth  from  impending  ruin.  But, 
he  had  entered  the  downward  way,  and  it  seemed  that  no 
thing  could  stop  his  rapid  progress.  Now  he  met  him, 
after  the  lapse  of  ten  years,  and  found  him  mad  with  the 
drunkard's  madness. 

The  scene  was  too  painful  for  Mr.  Grim.  He  could  not 
bear  it.  So,  hurriedly  drawing  his  purse  from  his  pocket, 
he  threw  it  upon  the  floor,  and  turning  from  the  room  made 
his  way  out  of  the  house,  trembling  in  every  nerve.  When 
he  arrived  at  home,  the  perspiration  stood  cold  and  clammy 
on  every  part  of  his  body.  His  mind  was  greatly  excited. 
Most  vividly  did  he  picture,  in  imagination,  the  horrible 
fiend,  striking  the  poor  drunken  wretch  with  his  serpent 
spear,  or  blasting  him  with  his  terrific  countenance.  For 
an  hour  he  walked  the  floor  of  his  chamber,  and  then, 
exhausted  in  body  and  mind,  threw  himself  on  a  bed,  and 
tried  to  find  oblivion  in  sleep.  But,  though  he  wooed  the 
gentle  goddess,  she  came  not  with  her  soothing  poppies. 
Too  vivid  was  the  impression  of  what  he  had  seen,  and  too 
painful  were  the  accompanying  reflections,  to  admit  of 
sweet  repose.  At  last,  however,  exhaustion  came,  and  he 
fell  into  that  half  sleeping  and  waking  state — in  which  the 
imagination  remains  active,  so  painful  to  endure.  In  this 
state,  one  picture  presented  by  imagination  was  most  vivid 
of  all ;  it  was  the  picture  of  poor  Dyer,  shrinking  from  the 


THE     DISTILLER'S     DREAM.  169 

fiend  with  the  serpent,  which  latter  was  now  as  plainly 
visible  to  him  as  it  had  been  to  the  unhappy  drunkard. 
Presently  the  fiend  began  to  turn  his  eyes  upon  him  with  a 
malignant  expression  ;  then  it  glanced  from  him  to  the 
drunkard,  and  pointing  at  the  latter,  said — Grim  heard  the 
voice  distinctly — 

"  It  is  your  work  /" 

The  distiller  closed  his  eyes  to  hide  from  view  the  grin 
ning  phantom.  But  it  did  not  shut  out  the  vision.  The 
fiend  was  before  him  still ;  and  now  it  swung  around  its 
head  a  horrid  serpent  with  distended  jaws,  and  seemed 
about  to  dash  it  upon  him.  He  cowered  and  groaned  in 
fear.  As  he  still  gazed  upon  the  dreadful  form,  it  slowly 
changed  into  a  female  of  stern  yet  beautiful  aspect.  In  one 
hand  she  held  a  naked  sword,  and  in  the  other  a  balance. 
Her  knew  her,  and  trembled  still  more  intensely. 

"I  am  JUSTICE,"  said  the  figure.  "You  have  been 
weighed  in  the  balance  and  found  wanting.  The  world  is 
sustained  by  mutual  benefits.  No  man  can  live  wholly  for 
himself.  Each  must  serve  the  others.  What  one  man 
produces  another  enjoys.  You  have  enjoyed,  in  abun 
dance,  the  good  things  produced  by  others ;  but  what  has 
been  your  return  ?  Let  me  show  you  the  work  of  your 
hands.  Look !" 

Suddenly  there  was  a  murmur  of  voices ;  the  sound  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  a  crowd  of  men  and  women  came 
eagerly  toward  the  prostrate  distiller — all  eyes  upon  him, 
and  all  countenances  expressive  of  anger,  rebuke,  or 
despair.  One  poor  mother  held  towards  him  her  ragged, 
starving  child,  and  cried — 

"Your  cursed  trade  has  murdered  his  father.  Give  him 
back  to  us!" 

Another  marred  and  degraded  wretch  called,  with 
clenched  hand — 

"  Where  is  my  money,  my  good  name,  my  all?"  You 
have  robbed  me  of  every  thing  !" 

By  his  side  was  a  poor  drunkard,  supporting  the  pale 
form  of  his  sick  wife,  while  their  starving  children  stood 
weeping  before  them — 

"  Look  at  us?"  said  he.    " It  is  your  handy- work !" 

And  there  were  dozens  of  others  in  the  squalid  crowd 


170       THE   DISTILLER'S   DREAM. 

who  called  to  him  with  bitter  execrations,  or  pointed  to  their 
ruined  homes  and  cried — 

"It  is  your  work!  Your  work!  Rum  —  rum  has 
cursed  us!" 

"  Yes,  this  is  your  work,"  said  Justice,  sternly.  "  For 
the  good  things  of  life  you  received  on  all  hands  from  your 
fellow-men,  you  gave  them  back  a  stream  of  fire  to  con 
sume  them.  Wealth  is  the  representative  of  use  to  society. 
It  comes,  or  should  come,  as  a  reward  for  serving  the  com 
mon  good.  So  earned,  it  is  a  blessing;  and  he  who  thus 
gains  it  has  a  right  to  its  possession.  But,  in  your  eager 
pursuit  of  gain  you  have  cursed  every  man  who  brought 
you  a  blessing ;  and  now  your  ill-gotten  wealth  must  be 
given  up.  See!" 

And,  as  she  spoke,  she  pointed  to  an  immense  bag  of 
gold. 

"It  is  all  there!"  continued  Justice.  "Your  houses 
and  lands,  your  stocks  and  your  merchandise,  have  been 
converted  into  gold;  and  I  now  distribute  it  once  more 
among  the  people,  to  be  gathered  by  those  more  worthy  to 
possess  it  than  thou !" 

Then  a  troop  of  fiends  came  rushing  down  through  the 
air,  and,  seizing  the  bag,  were  bearing  it  off  in  triumph, 
M'hen  the  agonized  sleeper  sprang  towards  his  gold,  and  in 
the  effort  threw  off  the  terrible  nightmare  that  was  almost 
crushing  out  his  life. 

There  was  no  sleep  for  him  during  the  hours  that  inter 
vened  until  the  daylight  broke.  The  images  he  had  seen, 
and  the  words  he  had  heard,  were  before  him  all  the  time, 
crushing  his  heart  like  the  pressure  of  heavy  footsteps.  As 
soon  as  the  day  had  dawned  he  started  forth  and  sought  the 
dwelling  he  had  so  hastily  left  on  the  night  before.  All 
was  silent  as  he  ascended  the  stairway.  The  door  of  the 
room  where  he  had  been  stood  partly  open.  He  listened  a 
moment — all  was  silent.  He  moved  the  door,  but  nothing 
stirred  within.  Then  he  entered.  His  purse  lay  upon  the 
floor  where  he  had  thrown  it;  that  was  the  first  object 
which  met  his  sight.  The  next  was  the  ghastly  face  of 
death !  The  wretched  drunkard  had  passed  to  his  account ; 
and  his  body  lay  upon  the  bed.  Close  beside  was  the  form 
of  her  who  had  been  to  Mr.  Grim,  in  early  years,  as  a 
tender  sister.  She  was  in  a  profound  sleep ;  and  on  the 


THE   DISTILLER'S   DREAM.       171 

floor  lay  the  child,  also  wrapped  in  deep  forgetfulness  of 
the  misery  with  which  she  was  surrounded. 

"  And  this  is  the  work  I  have  been  doing !"  sighed  the 
distiller ;  whose  mind  could  not  lose  the  vivid  impression 
made  by  his  dream. 

A  little  while  he  contemplated  the  scene  around  him, 
and  then  taking  up  his  purse  he  silently  withdrew.  But 
ere  returning  home  he  made  known  to  a  benevolent  person 
the  fact  of  the  unhappy  death  which  had  occurred,  and, 
placing  money  in  his  hand,  asked  him  to  do  all  that 
humanity  required,  and  to  do  it  at  his  expense. 

Few  men  went  about  their  daily  business  with  a  heavier 
heart  than  Mr.  Andrew  Grim.  He  felt  that  he  was  the 
possessor  of  ill-gotten  gain ;  and  felt,  besides,  a  sense  of 
insecurity. 

"  Wealth  is  the  representative  of  use  to  society.  It  comes, 
or  should  come,  as  a  reward  for  serving  the  common  good" 
he  repeated  to  himself,  in  the  words  he  had  heard  in  his 
dream.  "And  how  have  I  served  the  common  good? 
What  good  have  I  performed  that  corresponds  to  the  bless 
ings  I  have  received  and  enjoy?  Ah,  me !  I  wish  it  were 
otherwise." 

With  such  thoughts,  how  could  the  man  be  happy! 
When  night  came  round  again  he  feared  to  trust  himself 
in  the  arms  of  sleep ;  and  when  exhausted  nature  yield 
ed,  painful  dreams  haunted  him  until  morning.  Weeks 
elapsed  before  the  vivid  impression  he  had  received  wore 
off,  and  before  he  enjoyed  any  thing  like  a  quiet  slumber. 
But,  though  he  had  a  better  sleep,  his  waking  thoughts 
ceased  to  be  peaceful  and  self-satisfying.  A  year  went  by, 
and  then,  fretted  beyond  endurance  at  his  position  of  manu 
facturer  of  death  and  destruction,  both  natural  and  spiritual, 
for  his  lellow  men,  he  broke  up  his  distillery,  and  invested 
his  money  in  a  business  that  could  be  followed  with  benefit 
to  all. 


THE 

RUINED     FAMILY. 

PART   FIRST. 


"How  beautiful!"  ejaculated  Mary  Graham,  as  she 
fixed  her  eyes  intently  on  the  western  sky,  rich  with  the 
many-coloured  clouds  of  a  brilliant  sunset  in  June. 

"  feeautiful  indeed  !"  responded  her  sister  Anna. 

"  I  could  gaze  on  it  for  ever !"  Ellen,  a  younger  and 
more  enthusiastic  sister  remarked,  with  fervent  admiration. 
"  Look,  Ma  !  was  ever  anything  more  gorgeous  than  that 
pure  white  cloud,  fringed  with  brilliant  gold,  and  relieved 
by  the  translucent  and  sparkling  sky  beyond  ?" 

" "  It  is  indeed  very  beautiful,  Ellen,"  Mrs.  Graham 
replied.  But  there  was  an  abstraction  in  her  manner,  that 
indicated,  too  plainly,  that  something  weighed  upon  her 
mind. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  enjoy  a  rich  sunset  as  much  as  you 
used  to  do,  Ma,"  Anna  said,  for  she  felt  the  tone  and 
manner  in  which  her  mother  had  expressed  her  admiration 
of  the  scene. 

"  You  only  think  so,  perhaps,"  Mrs.  Graham  rejoined, 
endeavouring  to  arouse  herself,  and  to  feel  interested  in  the 
brilliant  exhibition  of  nature  to  which  her  daughter  had 
alluded.  "  The  scene  is,  indeed,  very  beautiful,  Anna,  and 
reminds  me  strongly  of  some  of  Wordsworth's  exquisite 
descriptions,  so  full  of  power  to  awaken  the  heart's  deepest 
and  purest  emotions.  You  all  remember  this :  — 

"'Calm  is  the  evening  air,  and  loth  to  lose 

Day's  grateful  warmth,  though  moist  with  falling  dews. 
Look  for  the  stars,  you'll  say  that  there  are  none; 
Look  up  a  second  time,  and,  one  by  one, 
You  mark  them  twinkling  out  with  silvery  light, 
And  wonder  how  they  could  elude  the  sight.'"" 
172 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY  173 

"And  this:  — 

"'No  sound  is  uttered, — but  a  deep 
And  solemn  harmony  pervades 
The  hollow  vale  from  steep  to  steep, 
And  penetrates  the  glades. 
Far  distant  images  draw  nigh, 
Called  forth  by  wondrous  potency 
Of  beamy  radiance,  that  imbues 
Whate'er  it  strikes  with  gem-like  hues! 
In  vision  exquisitely  clear, 
Herds  range  along  the  mountain-side ; 
And  glistening  antlers  are  descried; 
And  gilded  flocks  appear. 
Thine  is  the  tranquil  hour,  purpureal  Eve! 
But  long  as  god-like  wish,  or  hope  divine, 
Informs  my  spirit,  ne'er  can  I  believe 
That  this  magnificence  is  wholly  thine! 
From  worlds  not  quickened  by  the  sun 
A  portion  of  the  gift  is  won.' " 

"  How  calm  and  elevating  to  the  heart,  like  the  hour 
he  describes,"  Ellen  said,  in  a  musing  tone,  as  she  sat  with 
her  eyes  fixed  intently  on  the  slow-fading  glories  of  the 
many-coloured  clouds. 

The  influence  of  the  tranquil  hour  gradually  subdued 
them  into  silence ;  and  as  the  twilight  began  to  fall,  each 
sat  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  pure  and  refined  pleasure,  conse 
quent  upon  a  true  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  in  nature, 
combined  with  highly  cultivated  tastes,  and  innocent  and 
elevated  thoughts. 

"  There  comes  Pa,  I  believe,"  Anna  remarked,  breaking 
the  silence,  as  the  hall  door  opened  and  then  closed  with  a 
heavy  jar ;  and  the  well-known  sound  of  her  father's  foot 
steps  was  heard  along  the  passage  and  on  the  stairs. 

None  of  her  children  observed  the  hushed  intensity  with 
which  Mrs.  Graham  listened,  as  their  father  ascended  to 
the  chamber.  But  they  noticed  that  she  became  silent  and 
more  thoughtful  than  at  first.  In  about  ten  minutes  she 
arose  and  left  the  room. 

"  Something  seems  to  trouble  Ma,  of  late,"  Ellen  ob 
served,  as  soon  as  their  mother  had  retired. 

"  So  I  have  thought.  She  is  certainly,  to  all  appearance, 
less  cheerful,"  Mary  replied. 

"  What  can  be  the  cause  of  it  ?" 

"  I  nardly  think  there  can  be  any  very  serious  cause. 
We  are  none  of  us  always  in  the  same  state  of  mind." 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

"  But  I  have  noticed  a  change,  in  Ma,  for  some  months 
past — and  particularly  in  the  last  few  weeks,"  Anna  said. 
'•  She  is  not  happy." 

"I  remember,  now,  that  I  overheard  her,  about  six 
•weeks  ago,  talking  to  Alfred  about  something — the  com 
pany  he  kept,  I  believe — and  that  he  seemed  angry,  and 
spoke  to  her,  I  thought,  unkindly.  Since  that  time  she 
has  not  seemed  so  cheerful ;"  Ellen  said. 

"  That  may  be  the  cause ;  but  still  I  hardly  think  that  it 
is,"  Anna  replied.  "Alfred's  principal  associates  are 
William  Gray  and  Charles  Williams ;  and  they  belong  to 
our  first  families.  Pa,  you  know,  is  very  intimate  with 
loth  Mr.  Gray  and  Mr.  Williams." 

"It  was  to  William  Gray  and  Charles  Williams,  I  believe, 
however,  that  Ma  particularly  objected." 

"  Upon  what  ground  ?" 

"  Upon  the  ground  of  their  habits,  I  think,  she  said." 

"  Their  habits  ?     What  of  their  habits,  I  wonder  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  I  am  sure.  I  only  remember  having 
heard  Ma  object  to  them  on  that  account." 

"  That  is  strange  !"  was  the  remark  of  Anna.  "  I  am 
sure  that  I  have  never  seen  anything  out  of  the  way,  in 
either  of  them ;  and,  as  to  William  Gray,  I  have  always 
esteemed  him  very  highly." 

"  So  have  I,"  Mary  said.  "  Both  of  them  are  intelligent, 
agreeable  young  men ;  and  such,  as  it  seems  to  me,  are  in 
every  way  fitted  to  be  companions  for  our  brother." 

But  Mrs.  Graham  had  seen  more  of  the  world  than  her 
daughters,  and  knew  how  to  judge  from  appearances  far 
better  than  they.  Some  recent  circumstances,  likewise, 
had  quickened  her  perceptions  of  danger,  and  made  them 
doubly  acute.  In  the  two  young  men  alluded  to,  now 
about  the  ages  of  eighteen  and  twenty,  she  had  been  pained 
to  observe  strong  indications  of  a  growing  want  of  strict 
moral  restraints,  combined  with  a  tendency  towards  dissi 
pation  ;  and,  what  was  still  more  painful,  an  exhibition  of 
like  perversions  in  her  only  son,  now  on  the  verge  of  man 
hood, — that  deeply  responsible  and  dangerous  period,  when 
parental  authority  and  control  subside  in  a  degree,  and  the 
individual,  inexperienced  yet  self-confident,  assumes  the 
task  of  guiding  himself. 

When  Mrs.  Graham  left  the  room,  she  proceeded  slowly 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  175 

up  to  the  chamber  into  which  her  husband  had  gone,  where 
all  had  been  silent  since  his  entrance.  She  found  him 
lying  upon  the  bed,  and  already  in  a  sound  sleep.  The 
moment  she  bent  over  him,  she  perceived  the  truth  to  be 
that  which  her  trembling  and  sinking  heart  so  much 
dreaded.  He  was  intoxicated  ! 

Shrinking  away  from  the  bed-side,  she  retired  to  a  far 
corner  of  the  room,  where  she  seated  herself  by  a  table, 
and  burying  her  face  in  her  arms,  gave  way  to  the  most 
gloomy,  heart -aching  thoughts  and  feelings.  Tears 
brought  her  no  relief  from  these ;  for  something  of  hope 
lessness  in  her  sorrow,  gave  no  room  for  the  blessing  of 
tears. 

Mr.  Graham  was  a  merchant  of  high  standing  in  Phila 
delphia,  where,  for  many  years,  he  had  been  engaged 
extensively  in  the  East  India  trade.  Six  beautiful  ships 
floated  for  years  upon  the  ocean,  returning  at  regular 
intervals,  freighted  with  the  rich  produce  of  the  East,  and 
filling  his  coffers,  until  they  overflowed,  with  accumulating 
wealth.  But  it  was  not  wealth  alone  that  gave  to  Mr. 
Graham  the  elevated  social  position  that  he  held.  His 
strong  intelligence,  and  the  high  moral  tone  of  his  cha 
racter,  gave  him  an  influence  and  an  estimation  far 
above  what  he  derived  from  his  great  riches.  In  the 
education  of  his  children,  four  in  number,  he  had  been 
governed  by  a  wise  regard  to  the  effect  which  that  edu 
cation  would  have  upon  them  as  members  of  society. 
He  early  instilled  into  their  minds  a  desire  to  be  useful  to 
others,  and  taught  them  the  difference  between  an  estima 
tion  of  individuals,  founded  upon  their  wealth  and  position 
in  society,  and  an  estimation  derived  from  intrinsic  excel 
lence  of  character.  The  consequence  of  all  this  was,  to 
make  him  beloved  by  his  family — purely  and  tenderly 
beloved,  because  there  was  added  to  the  natural  affection 
for  one  in  his  position,  the  power  of  a  deep  respect  for 
his  character  and  principles. 

At  the  time  of  his  introduction  to  the  reader,  Mr.  Gra 
ham  was  forty-five  years  old.  Alfred,  his  oldest  child, 
was  twenty-one;  Mary,  nineteen;  Ellen,  eighteen;  and 
Anna  just  entering  her  sixteenth  year.  Up  to  this  time, 
or  nearly  to  this  time,  a  happier  family  circled  no  hearth 
in  the  city.  But  now  an  evil  wing  was  hovering  over 


176  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

them,  the  shadow  from  which  had  already  been  peiv 
ceived  by  the  mother's  heart,  as  it  fell  coldly  and  darkly 
upon  it,  causing  it  to  shrink  and  tremble  with  gloomy 
apprehensions.  From  early  manhood  up,  it  had  been  the 
custom  of  Mr.  Graham  to  use  wines  and  brandies  as 
liberally  as  he  desired,  without  the  most  remote  suspicion 
once  crossing  his  mind  that  any  danger  to  him  could 
attend  the  indulgence.  But  to  the  eye  of  his  wife,  whose 
suspicions  had  of  late  been  aroused,  and  her  perceptions 
rendered,  in  consequence,  doubly  acute,  it  had  become 
apparent  that  the  habit  was  gaining  a  fatal  predominance 
over  him.  She  noted,  with  painful  emotions,  that  as  each 
evening  returned,  there  were  to  her  eye  too  evident  indi 
cations  that  he  had  been  indulging  so  freely  in  the  use  of 
liquors,  as  to  have  his  mind  greatly  obscured.  His  dis 
position,  too,  was  changing;  and  he  was  becoming  less 
cheerful  in  his  family,  and  less  interested  in  the  pleasures 
and  pursuits  of  his  children.  Alfred,  whom  he  had,  up  to 
this  time,  regarded  with  an  earnest  and  careful  solicitude, 
was  now  almost  entirely  left  to  his  own  guidance,  at  an 
age,  too,  when  he  needed  more  than  ever  the  direction  of 
his  father's  matured  experience. 

All  these  exhibitions  of  a  change  so  unlocked  for,  and 
so  terrible  for  a  wife  and  mother  to  contemplate,  might 
well  depress  the  spirits  of  Mrs.  Graham,  and  fill  her  with 
deep  and  anxious  solicitude.  For  some  weeks  previous 
to  the  evening  on  which  our  story  opens,  Mr.  Graham 
had  shown  strong  symptoms  almost  every  day  —  symp 
toms  apparent,  however,  in  the  family,  only  to  the  eye  of 
his  wife — of  drunkenness.  Towards  the  close  of  each 
day,  as  the  hour  for  his  return  from  business  drew  near 
her  feelings  would  become  oppressed  under  the  fearful 
apprehension  that  when  he  came  home,  it  would  be  in  a 
state  of  intoxication.  This  she  dreaded  on  many  ac 
counts.  Particularly  was  she  anxious  to  conceal  the 
father's  aberrations  from  his  children.  She  could  not 
bear  the  thought  that  respect  for  one  now  so  deeply 
honoured  by  them,  should  be  diminished  in  their  bosoms. 
She  felt,  too,  keenly,  the  reproach  that  would  rest  upon 
his  name,  should  the  vice  that  was  now  entangling, 
obtain  full  possession  of  him,  and  entirely  destroy  his 
manly,  rational  freedom  of  action.  Of  consequences  to 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  177 

herself  and  children,  resulting  from  changed  external  cir« 
cumstances,  she  did  not  dream.  Her  husband's  wealth 
was  immense;  and,  therefore,  even  if  he  should  so  far 
abandon  himself  as  to  have  to  relinquish  business,  there 
would  be  enough,  and  more  than  enough,  to  sustain  them 
in  any  position  in  society  they  might  choose  to  occupy. 

On  the  occasion  to  which  we  have  already  referred, 
her  heart  was  throbbing  with  suspense  as  the  hour  drew 
nigh  for  his  return,  when,  sooner  than  she  expected  him, 
Mr.  Graham  opened  the  hall-door,  and  instead  of  entering 
the  parlour,  as  usual,  proceeded  at  once  to  his  chamber. 
The  quick  ear  of  his  wife  detected  something  wrong  in 
the  sound  of  his  footsteps — the  cause  she  knew  too  well. 
Oh,  how  deeply  wretched  she  felt,  though  she  strove  all  in 
her  power  to  seem  unmoved  while  in  the  presence  of  her 
children !  Anxious  to  know  the  worst,  she  soon  retired, 
as  has  been  seen,  from  the  parlours,  and  went  up  to  the 
chamber  above.  Alas !  how  sadly  were  her  worst  fears 
realized !  The  loved  and  honoured  partner  of  many 
happy  years,  the  father  of  her  children,  lay  before  her, 
slumbering,  heavily,  in  the  sleep  of  intoxication. 

It  seemed,  for  a  time,  as  if  she  could  not  bear  up  under 
the  trial.  While  seated,  far  from  the  bed-side,  brooding 
in  sad  despondency  over  the  evil  that  had  fallen  upon 
them — an  evil  of  such  a  character  that  it  had  never  been 
feared — it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  endure  it. 
Her  thoughts  grew  bewildered,  and  reason  for  a  time 
seemed  trembling.  Then  her  mind  settled  into  a  gloomy 
calmness  that  was  even  more  terrible,  for  it  had  about  it 
something  approaching  the  hopelessness  of  despair. 

Thoughts  of  her  children  at  last  aroused  her,  as  the 
gathering  night  darkened  the  chamber  in  which  she  sat, 
and  she  endeavoured  to  rally  herself,  and  to  assume  a 
calmness  that  she  was  far  from  feeling.  A  reason  would 
have  to  be  given  for  the  father's  non-appearance  at  the 
tea-table.  That  could  easily  be  done.  Fatigue  and  a 
slight  indisposition  had  caused  him  to  lie  down :  and  as 
he  had  fallen  asleep,  it  was  thought  best  not  to  awaken 
him.  Such  a  tale  was  readily  told,  and  as  readily 
received.  The  hardest  task  was  to  school  her  feelings 
nto  submission,  and  so  control  the  expression  of  her  face, 

22 


178  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

and  the  tone  of  her  voice,  as  to  cause  none  to  suspect  that 
there  was  anything  wrong. 

To  do  this  fully,  however,  was  impossible.  Her  man 
ner  was  too  evid'ently  changed;  and  her  face  wore  too 
dreamy  and  sad  an  expression  to  deceive  her  daughters, 
who  inquired,  with  much  tenderness  and  solicitude, 
whether  she  was  not  well,  or  whether  anything  troubled 
her. 

"  I  am  only  a  little  indisposed,"  was  her  evasive  reply 
to  her  children's  kind  interrogatories. 

"  Can't  I  do  something  for  you  ?"  inquired  Ellen,  with 
an  earnest  affection  in  her  manner. 

"  No,  dear,",  was  her  mother's  brief  response  ;  and  then 
followed  a  silence,  oppressive  to  all,  which  remained 
unbroken  until  the  tea  things  were  removed. 

"Alfred  is  again  away  at  tea-time,"  Mrs.  Graham  at 
length  said,  as  they  all  arose  from  the  table. 

"  He  went-  out  this  afternoon  with  Charles  Williams," 
Mary  replied. 

"Did  he?"  the  mother  rejoined  quickly,  and  with  some 
thing  of  displeasure  in  her  tone. 

"  Yes.  Charles  called  for  him  in  his  buggy  about  four 
o'clock,  and  they  rode  out  together.  I  thought  you  knew 
it" 

"No.     I  was  lying  down  about  that  time." 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  like  Charles  Williams  much." 

"I  certainly  do  not,  Anna,  as  a  companion  for  Alfred. 
He  is  too  fond  of  pleasure  and  sporting,  and  I  am  very 
much  afraid  will  lead  your  brother  astray." 

"  I  never  saw  anything  wrong  about  him,  Ma." 

"  Perhaps  not.    But  I  have  learned  to  be  a  much  closer 
observer  in  these  matters  than  you,  Mary.     I  have  seen 
,  too  many  young  men  at  Alfred's  age  led  away,  not  to  feel 
a  deep  and  careful  solicitude  for  him." 

As  the  subject  seemed  to  give  their  mother  pain,  her 
daughters  did  not  reply ;  and  then  another,  and  still  more? 
troubled  silence  followed. 

A  chill  being  thrown  thus  over  the  feelings  of  all,  the 
family  separated  at  an  early  hour.  But  Mrs.  Graham 
did  not  retire  to  bed.  She  could  not,  for  she  was 
strangely  uneasy  about  her  son.  It  was  about  twelve 
o'clock  when  Alfred  came  in.  His  mother  opened  ner 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  179 

door  as  he  passed  it,  to  speak  to  him — but  her  tongue 
refused  to  give  utterance  to  the  words  that  trembled  upon 
it.  He,  too,  was  intoxicated  ! 

Brief  were  the  hours  given  to  sleep  that  night,  and 
troubled  the  slumber  that  locked  her  senses  in  forgetful- 
ness.  On  the  next  morning,  the  trembling  hand  of  her 
husband,  as  he  lifted  his  cup  to  his  lips,  and  the  unre- 
freshed  and  jaded  appearance  of  her  son,  told  but  too 
plainly  their  abuse  of  nature's  best  energies.  With  her 
husband,  Mrs.  Graham  could  not  bring  herself  to  speak 
upon  the  subject.  But  she  felt  that  her  duty  as  a  mother 
was  involved  in  regard  to  her  son,  and  therefore  she 
early  took  occasion  to  draw  him  aside,  and  remonstrate 
against  the  course  of  folly  upon  which  he  was  entering. 

"  You  were  out  late  last  night,  Alfred,"  she  said,  in  a 
mild  tone. 

"  I  was  in  at  twelve,  Ma." 

"  But  that  was  too  late,  Alfred." 

"  I  don't  know,  Ma.  Other  young  men  are  out  as  late, 
and  even  later,  every  night,"  the  young  man  said,  in  a 
respectful  tone.  "  I  rode  out  with  Charles  Williams  in 
the  afternoon,  and  then  went  with  him  to  a  wine  party  at 
night." 

"  I  must  tell  you  frankly,  Alfred,  that  I  like  neither  your 
companion  in  the  afternoon,  nor  your  company  in  the 
evening." 

"  You  certainly  do  not  object  to  Charles  Williams. 
He  stands  as  high  in  society  as  I  do." 

"  His  family  is  one  of  respectability  and  standing. 
But  his  habits,  I  fear,  Alfred,  are  such  as  will,  ere  long, 
destroy  all  of  his  title  to  respectful  estimation." 

"You  judge  harshly,"  the  young  man  said,  colouring 
deeply. 

"  I  believe  not,  Alfred.  And  what  is  more,  I  am  con 
vinced  that  you  stand  in  imminent  danger  from  your 
association  with  him." 

"  How  1"  was  the  quick  interrogatory. 

"  Through  him,  for  instance,  you  were  induced  to  go  to 
a  wine  party  last  night." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  And  there  induced  to-  drink  too  much." 

"  Mother !" 


180  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

"  I  saw  you  when  you  came  in,  Alfred.  You  were  in 
a  sad  condition." 

For  a  few  moments  the  young  man  looked  his  mother 
in  the  face,  while  an  expression  of  grief  and  mortification 
passed  over  his  own. 

"It  is  true,"  he  at  length  said,  in  a  subdued  tone,  "that 
I  did  drink  to  excess,  last  evening.  But  do  not  be  alarmed 
on  that  account.  I  will  be  more  guarded,  in  future.  And 
let  me  now  assure  you,  most  earnestly,  that  I  am  in  no 
danger:  that  I  am  not  fond  of  wine.  I  was  led  to  drink 
too  much,  last  evening,  from  being  in  a  company  where 
wine  was  circulated  as  freely  as  water.  I  thought  you 
looked  troubled,  this  morning,  but  did  not  dream  that  it 
was  on  my  account.  Let  me,  then,  urge  you  to  banish 
from  your  mind  all  fears  in  regard  to  me." 

"  I  cannot  banish  such  fears,  my  son,  so  long  as  I  know 
that  you  have  dangerous  associates.  No  one  is  led  off,  no 
one  is  corrupted  suddenly." 

"  But  I  do  not  think  that  I  have  dangerous  associates." 

"  I  am  sure  you  have,  Alfred.  If  they  had  not  been 
such,  you  would  not  have  been  led  astray,  last  night.  Go 
not  into  the  way  of  temptation.  Shun  the  very  beginnings 
of  evil.  Remember  Pope's  warning  declaration: — 

"'Vice,  to  be  hated,  needs  but  to  be  seen,'  &c." 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  Ma,  you  are  far  too  serious  about  this 
matter." 

"  No,  my  son,  I  cannot  be !" 

"  Well,  perhaps  not.  But,  as  I  know  the  nature  of  my 
associations  far  better  than  you  possibly  can,  you  must 
pardon  me  for  thinking  that  they  involve  no  danger.  I 
have  arrived  to  years  of  discretion,  and  certainly  think 
that  I  am,  or  at  least  ought  to  be,  able  to  judge  for  mv- 
self." 

There  was  that  in  the  words  and  tone  of  the  young  man, 
that  made  the  mother  feel  conscious  that  it  would  be  no 
use  for  her  to  urge  the  matter  further,  at  that  time.  She 
merely  replied — 

"For  your  mother's  sake,  Alfred,  guard  yourself  more 
carefully,  in  future." 

It  is  wonderful,  sometimes,  how  rapidly  a  downward 
course  is  run.  The  barrier,  against  which  the  waters  have 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  181 

been  driven  for  years,  is  rapidly  washed  away,  so  soon  as 
even  the  smallest  breach  is  made.  A  breach  had  been 
made  in  Mr.  Graham's  resolution  to  be  only  a  sober  drinker 
of  intoxicating  liquors ;  and  the  consequence  was,  that  he 
had  less  power  to  resist  the  strong  inclination  to  drink, 
that  had  become  almost  like  a  second  nature  to  him.  A 
few  weeks  only  elapsed,  before  he  came  home  so  drunk 
as  to  expose  himself  in  the  street,  and  before  his  children 
and  servants,  in  a  most  disgusting  and  degrading  manner. 

Terrible  indeed  was  the  shock  to  his  children — espe 
cially  to  Mary,  Ellen  and  Anna.  His  sudden  death  could 
not  have  been  a  more  fearful  affliction.  Then,  they  would 
have  sorrowed  in  filial  respect  and  esteem,  made  sacred 
by  an  event  that  would  embalm  the  memory  of  their 
father  in  the  permanent  regard  of  a  whole  community : 
now,  he  stood  degraded  in  their  eyes ;  and  they  felt  that 
he  was  degraded  in  the  eyes  of  all.  In  his  presence  they 
experienced  restraint,  and  they  looked  for  his  coming  with 
a  shrinking  fear.  It  was,  indeed,  an  awful  affliction — 
such  as  few  can  realize  in  imagination ;  and  especially  for 
them,  as  they  occupied  a  conspicuous  position  in  society, 
and  were  conscious  that  all  eyes  were  upon  them,  and  that 
all  tongues  would  be  busy  with  the  story  of  their  father's 
degradation. 

It  is  wonderful,  we  have  said,  how  rapidly  a  downward 
course  is  sometimes  run.  In  the  case  of  Mr.  Graham, 
many  circumstances  combined  to  hasten  his  ruin.  It  was 
nearly  a  year  after  he  had  given  way  to  the  regular  indul 
gence  of  drink,  so  far  as  to  be  kept  almost  constantly  in  a 
state  of  half-intoxication  through  the  business  hours  of 
almost  every  day,  that  he  received  news  of  the  loss  of  a 
vessel  richly  laden  with  teas  from  China.  At  the  proper 
time  he  presented  the  requisite  documents  to  his  under 
writers,  and  claimed  the  loss,  amounting,  on  ship  and  cargo, 
to  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  thousand  dollars.  On 
account  of  alleged  improper  conduct  on  the  part  of  the 
captain,  united  with  informality  in  the  papers,  the  under 
writers  refused  to  pay  the  loss.  A  suit  at  law  was  the 
consequence,  in  which  the  underwriters  were  sustained. 
An  appeal  was  made,  but  the  same  result  followed— thus 
sweeping  away,  at  a  single  blow,  property  to  the  amount 
of  over  one  hundred  thousand  dollars.  During  the  pro 


• 


182  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

gress  of  the  trial,  Mr.  Graham  was  much  excited,  and 
drank  more  freely  than  ever.  When  the  result  was  finally 
ascertained,  he  sank  down  into  a  kind  of  morose  inactivity 
for  some  months,  neglecting  his  large  and  important  busi 
ness,  and  indulging,  during  the  time,  more  deeply  than  eve? 
in  his  favourite  potations.  It  was  in  vain  that  his  distressed 
family  endeavoured  to  rouse  him  into  activity.  All  thei*1 
efforts  were  met  by  an  irritability  and  a  moroseness  of 
temper  so  unlike  what  he  had  been  used  to  exhibit  towards 
them,  that  they  gave  up  all  idea  of  influencing  him  in 
despair. 

A  second  heavy  loss,  of  nearly  equal  amount,  altogether 
consequent  upon  this  neglect  of  business,  seemed  to  awaken 
up  the  latent  energies  of  his  character,  and  he  returned  to 
himself  with  something  of  his  former  clear-sighted  energy 
of  character.  But  his  affairs  had  already  become,  to  him, 
strangely  entangled.  The  machinery  of  his  extensive 
operations  had  been  interrupted ;  and  now,  in  attempting 
to  make  the  wheels  move  on  again,  it  was  too  apparent 
that  much  of  it  had  become  deranged,  and  the  parts  no 
longer  moved  in  harmonious  action  with  the  whole.  The 
more  these  difficulties  pressed  upon  him,  the  deeper  did 
he  drink,  as  a  kind  of  relief,  and,  in  consequence,  the  more 
unfit  to  extricate  himself  from  his  troubles  did  he  become. 
Every  struggle,  like  the  efforts  of  a  large  animal  in  a 
quagmire,  only  tended  to  involve  him  deeper  and  deeper 
in  inextricable  embarrassment. 

This  downward  tendency  continued  for  about  three 
years,  when  his  family  was  suddenly  stunned  by  the  shock 
of  his  failure.  It  seemed  impossible  for  them  to  realize 
the  truth — and,  indeed,  almost  impossible  for  the  whole 
community  to  realize  it.  It  was  only  three  or  four  years 
previous  that  his  wealth  was  estimated,  and  truly  so,  at  a 
million  and  a  half.  He  was  known  to  have  met  with 
heavy  losses,  but  where  so  much  could  have  gone,  puzzled 
every  one.  It  seems  almost  incredible  that  any  man  could 
have  run  through  such  an  estate  by  mismanagement,  in  so 
brief  a  period.  But  such  was  really  the  case.  Accus 
tomed  to  heavy  operations,  he  continued  to  engage  in  only 
the  most  liberal  transactions,  every  loss  in  which  was  a 
matter  of  serious  moment.  And  towards  the  last,  as  his 
mind  grew  more  and  more  bewildered  in  consequence  of 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  183 

his  drinking  deeper  and  deeper,  he  scarcely  got  up  a  single 
voyage,  that  did  not  result  in  loss ;  until,  finally,  he  was 
driven  to  an  utter  abandonment  of  business — but  not  until 
he  had  involved  his  whole  estate  in  ruin. 

The  beautiful  family  mansion  on  Chestnut-street  had  to 
be  given  up — the  carriage  and  elegant  furniture  sold  under 
the  hammer,  while  the  family  retired,  overwhelmed  with 
distress,  to  an  humble  dwelling  in  an  obscure  part  of  the 
city. 

Seven  years  from  the  day  on  which  Mrs.  Graham  and 
her  children  were  thus  thrown  suddenly  down  from  their 
elevation,  and  driven  into  obscurity,  that  lady  sat  alone, 
near  the  window  of  a  meanly-furnished  room  in  a  house 
on  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  overlooking  the  Schuylkill.  It 
was  near  the  hour  of  sunset.  Gradually  the  day  declined, 
and  the  dusky  shadows  of  evening  fell  gloomily  around. 
Still  Mrs.  Graham  sat  leaning  her  head  upon  her  hand,  in 
deep  abstraction  of  mind.  Alas  !  seven  years  had  wrought 
a  sad  change  in  her  appearance,  and  a  sadder  one  in  her 
feelings.  Her  deeply-sunken  eye,  and  pale,  thin  face,  told 
a  tale  of  wretchedness  and  suffering,  whose  silent  appeal 
made  the  very  heart  ache.  Her  garments,  too,  were  old 
and  faded,  and  antiquated  in  style. 

She  sat  thus  for  about  half-an-hour,  when  the  door  of 
the  room  was  opened  slowly,  and  a  young  woman  entered, 
carrying  on  her  arm  a  small  basket.  She  seemed,  at  first 
sight,  not  over  twenty-three  or  four  years  of  age ;  but, 
when  observed  more  closely,  her  hollow  cheek,  pale  face, 
and  languid  motions,  indicated  the  passage  of  either  many 
more  years  over  her  head,  or  the  painful  inroads  of  disease 
and  sorrow.  Mrs.  Graham  looked  up,  but  did  not  speak, 
as  the  young  woman  entered,  and,  after  placing  her  basket 
on  a  table,  laid  aside  her  bonnet  and  faded  shawl. 

"  How  did  you  find  Ellen,  to-day  ?"  she  at  length  said. 

"  Bad  enough  !"  was  the  mournful  reply.  "  It  makes 
my  heart  ache,  Ma,  whenever  I  go  to  see  her." 

"  Was  her  husband  at  home  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  as  drunk  and  ill-natured  as  ever." 

"How  is  the  babe,  Mary?" 

"  Not  well.  Dear  little  innocent  creature  !  it  has  seen 
the  light  of  this  dreary  world  in  an  evil  time.  Ellen  has 
scarcely  any  milk  for  it ;  and  I  could  not  get  it  to  feed, 


184  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

try  all  I  could.  It  nestles  in  her  breast,  and  frets  and  cries 
almost  incessantly,  with  pain  and  hunger.  Although  it  is 
now  six  weeks  old,  yet  Ellen  seems  to  have  gained  scarcely 
any  strength  at  all.  She  has  no  appetite,  and  creeps  about 
with  the  utmost  difficulty.  With  three  little  children  hang 
ing  about  her,  and  the  youngest  that  helpless  babe,  her 
condition  is  wretched  indeed.  It  would  be  bad  enough, 
were  her  husband  kind  to  her.  But  cross,  drunken  and 
idle,  scarcely  furnishing  his  family  with  food  enough  to 
sustain  existence,  her  life  with  him  is  one  of  painful  trial 
and  suffering.  Indeed,  I  wonder,  with  her  sensitive  dis 
position  and  delicate  body,  how  she  can  endure  such  a 
life  for  a  week." 

A  deep  sigh,  or  rather  moan,  was  the  mother's  only 
response.  Her  daughter  continued, 

"  Bad  as  I  myself  feel  with  this  constant  cough,  pain  in 
my  side,  and  weakness,  I  must  go  over  again  to-morrow 
and  stay  with  her.  She  ought  not  to  be  left  alone.  The 
dear  children,  too,  require  a  great  deal  of  attention  that 
she  cannot  possibly  give  to  them." 

"  You  had  better  bring  little  Ellen  home  with  you,  had 
you  not,  Mary  1  I  could  attend  to  her  much  better  than 
Ellen  can." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  that  myself,  Ma.  But  you  seemed 
so  poorly,  that  I  did  not  feel  like  saying  anything  about  it 
just  now." 

"  O  yes.  Bring  her  home  with  you  to-morrow  evening, 
by  all  means.  It  will  take  that  much  off  of  poor  Ellen's 
hands." 

"  Then  I  will  do  so,  Ma ;  at  least  if  Ellen  is  willing,'' 
Mary  said,  in  a  lighter  tone — the  idea  of  even  that  relief 
being  extended  to  her  overburdened  sister  causing  her 
mind  to  rise  in  a  momentary  buoyancy. 

"  Anna  is  late  to-night,"  she  remarked,  after  a  pause  of 
a  few  moments. 

As  she  said  this,  the  door  opened,  and  the  sister  of 
whom  she  spoke  entered. 

"  You  are  late  to-night,  Anna,"  her  mother  said. 

"  Yes,  rather  later  than  usual.  I  had  to  take  a  few 
small  articles  home  for  a  lady,  after  I  left  the  store,  who 
lives  in  Sixth  near  Spring  Garden." 

"  In  Sixth  near  Spring  .Garden  !" 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  187 

"  Yes.  The  lad  who  takes  home  goods  had  gone,  and 
the  lady  was  particular  about  having  them  sent  home  this 
evening." 

"  Do  you  not  feel  very  tired  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  the  poor  girl  said,  sinking  into  a  chair. 
"  I  feel,  sometimes,  as  if  I  must  give  up.  No  one  in  our 
store  is  allowed  to  sit  down  from  morning  till  night. 
The  other  girls  don't  appear  to  mind  it  much  ;  but  before 
evening,  it  seems  as  if  I  must  drop  to  the  floor.  But  I 
won't  complain,"  she  added,  endeavouring  to  rally  her 
self,  and  put  on  a  cheerful  countenance.  "How  have  you 
been  to-day,  Ma  ?" 

"  If  you  won't  complain,  I  am  sure  that  I  have  no  right 
to,  Anna." 

"  You  cannot  be  happy,  of  course,  Ma ;  that  I  know  too 
well.  None  of  us,  I  fear,  will  ever  be  again  happy  in 
this  world !"  Anna  said,  in  a  lone  of  despondency,  her 
spirits  again  sinking. 

No  one  replied  to  this ;  and  a  gloomy  silence  of  many 
minutes  followed  —  a  quiet  almost  as  oppressive  as  the 
stillness  that  reigns  in  the  chamber  of  death.  Then 
Mary  commenced  busying  herself  about  the  evening 
meal. 

"Tea  is  ready,  Ma  and  Anna,"  she  at  length  said, 
after  their  frugal  repast  had  been  placed  upon  the  table. 

"  Has  not  Alfred  returned  yet?"  Anna  asked. 

"  No,"  was  the  brief  answer. 

"  Hadn't  we  better  wait  for  him  ?" 

"  He  knows  that  it  is  tea-time,  and  ought  to  be  here,  if 
he  wants  any,"  the  mother  said.  "You  are  tired  and 
hungry,  and  we  will  not,  of  course,  wait." 

The  little  family,  three  in  number,  gathered  around  the 
table,  but  no  one  eat  with  an  appetite  of  the  food  that  was 
placed  before  them.  There  were  two  vacant  places  at 
the  board.  The  husband  and  son — the  father  and  bro 
ther — where  were  they? 

In  regard  to  the  former,  the  presentation  of  a  scene 
which  occurred  a  few  weeks  previous  will  explain  all. 
First,  however,  a  brief  review  of  the  past  seven  years  is 
necessary.  After  Mr.  Graham's  failure  in  business,  he 
gave  himself  up  to  drink,  and  sunk,  with  his  whole  family, 
down  into  want  and  obscurity  with  almost  unprecedented 

23 


188  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

rapidity.  He  seemed  at  once  to  become  strangely  indif 
ferent  to  his  wife  and  children — to  lose  all  regard  for 
their  welfare.  In  fact,  he  had  become,  in  a  degree, 
insane  from  the  sudden  reverses  which  had  overtaken 
him,  combined  with  the  bewildering  effects  of  strong 
drinks,  under  whose  influence  he  was  constantly  labouring. 

Thus  left  to  struggle  on  against  the  pressure  of  absolute 
want,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  brought  upon  them,  and 
with  no  internal  or  external  resources  upon  which  to  fall 
promptly  back,  Mrs.  Graham  and  her  daughters  were  for 
a  time  overwhelmed  with  despair.  Alfred,  to  whom  they 
should  have  looked  for  aid,  advice,  and  sustenance,  in  this 
hour  of  severe  trial,  left  almost  entirely  to  himself,  as  far 
as  his  father  had  been  concerned,  for  some  two  years, 
had  sunk  into  habits  of  dissipation  from  which  even  this 
terrible  shock  had  not  the  power  to  arouse  him.  Having 
made  himself  angry  in  his  opposition  to,  and  resistance  of, 
all  his  mother's  admonitions,  warnings,  and  persuasions, 
he  seemed  to  have  lost  all  affection  for  her  and  his  sisters. 
So  that  a  sense  of  their  destitute  and  distressed  condition 
had  no  influence  over  him — at  least,  not  sufficient  to 
arouse  him  into  active  exertions  for  their  support.  Thus 
were  they  left  utterly  dependent  upon  their  own  resources 
—  and  what  was  worse,  were  burdened  with  the  support 
of  both  father  and  brother. 

The  little  that  each  had  been  able  to  save  from  the 
general  wreck,  was,  as  a  means  of  sustenance,  but  small. 
Two  or  three  gold  watches  and  chains,  with  various  arti 
cles  of  jewelery,  fancy  work-boxes,  and  a  number  of  trifles, 
more  valued  than  valuable,  made  up,  besides  a  remnant  of 
household  furniture,  the  aggregate  of  their  little  wealth. 
Of  course,  the  mother  and  daughters  were  driven,  at  once, 
to  some  expedient  for  keeping  the  family  togeJher.  A 
boarding-house,  that  first  resort  of  nearly  all  -destitute 
females,  upon  whom  families  are  dependent,  especially  of 
those  who  have  occupied  an  elevated  position  in  rociety, 
was  opened,  as  the  only  means  of  support  that  presented 
itself.  The  result  of  this  experiment,  continued  for  a  year 
and  a  half,  was  a  debt  of  several  hundred  dollars,  which 
was  liquidated  by  the  seizure  of  Mrs.  Graham's  furniture. 
But  worse  than  this,  a  specious  young  man,  one  of  the 
boarders,  had  won  upon  the  affections  of  Ellen,  and  induced 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  189 

her  to  marry  him.  He,  too  soon,  proved  himself  to  have 
neither  a  true  affection  for  her,  nor  to  have  sound  moral 
principles.  He  was,  moreover,  idle,  and  fond  of  gay  com 
pany. 

On  the  day  that  Mrs.  Graham  broke  up  her  boarding- 
house,  Markland,  her  daughter's  husband,  was  discharged 
from  his  situation  as  clerk,  on  account  of  inefficiency. 
For  six  months  previous,  the  time  he  had  been  married, 
he  had  paid  no  boarding,  thus  adding  himself  as  a  dead 
weight  to  the  already  overburdened  family.  As  he  had 
no  house  to  which  he  could  take  Ellen,  he  very  naturally 
felt  himself  authorized  to  share  the  house  to  which  the 
distressed  family  of  her  mother  retired,  seemingly  regard 
less  of  how  or  by  whom  the  food  he  daily  consumed  was 
provided. 

But  Mrs.  Graham  was  soon  reduced  to  such  extremities, 
that  he  was  driven  off  from  her,  with  his  wife,  and  forced 
to  obtain  employment  by  which  to  support  himself  and  her. 
As  for  the  old  man,  he  had  managed,  in  the  wreck  of 
affairs,  to  retain  a  large  proportion  of  his  wines,  and  other 
choice  liquors ;  and  these,  which  no  pressure  of  want  in 
his  family  could  drive  him  to  sell,  afforded  the  means  of 
gratifying  his  inordinate  love  of  drink.  His  clothes  gradu 
ally  became  old  and  rusty — but  this  seemed  to  give  him 
no  concern.  He  wandered  listlessly  in  his  old  business- 
haunts,  or  lounged  about  the  house  in  a  state  of  half  stupor, 
drinking  regularly  all  through  the  day,  at  frequent  periods, 
and  going  to  bed,  usually,  at  nights,  in  a  state  of  stupe 
faction. 

When  the  boarding-house  was  given  up,  poor  Mrs.  Gra 
ham,  whose  health  and  spirits  had  both  rapidly  declined  in 
the  past  two  years,  felt  utterly  at  a  loss  what  to  do.  Buf 
pressing  necessities  required  immediate  action. 

"  Anna,  child,  what  are  we  to  do,"  she  said,  rousin<* 
herself,  one  evening,  while  sitting  alone  with  her  daughters 
in  gloomy  abstraction. 

"  Indeed,  Ma,  I  am  as  much  at  a  loss  as  you  are.  I 
have  been  thinking  and  thinking  about  it,  until  my  mind 
has  become  beclouded  and  bewildered." 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  too,"  said  Mary,  "  and  it  strikes 
me  that  Anna  and  I  might  do  something  in  the  way  of 


190  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

ornamental  needlework.    Both  of  us,  you  -know,  are  fond 
of  it." 

"  Do  you  think  that  we  can  sell  it,  after  it  is  done  ?" 
Anna  asked,  with  a  lively  interest  in  her  tone. 

"  I  certainly  do.  We  see  plenty  of  such  work  in  the 
shops ;  and  they  must  buy  it,  of  course." 

"  Let  us  try,  then,  Mary,"  her  sister  said  with  anima 
tion. 

A  week  spent  in  untiring  industry,  produced  two  ele 
gantly  wrought  capes,  equal  to  the  finest  French  em 
broidery. 

"  And,  now,  where  shall  we  sell  them  ?"  Anna  inquired, 
in  a  tone  of  concern. 

«  Mrs. would,  no  doubt,  buy  them ;  but  I,  for  one, 

cannot  bear  the  thought  of  going  there." 

"  Nor  I.  But,  driven  by  necessity,  I  believe  that  I  could 
brave  to  go  there,  or  anywhere  else,  even  though  I  have 
not  been  in  Chestnut-street  for  nearly  two  years." 

"  Will  you  go,  then,  Mary  ?"  Anna  asked,  in  an  earnest, 
appealing  tone. 

"  Yes,  Anna,  as  you  seem  so  shrinkingly  reluctant,  I 
will  go." 

And  forthwith  Mary  prepared  herself;  and  rolling  up 
the  two  elegant  capes,  proceeded  with  them  to  the  store 

of  Mrs. ,  in  Chestnut-street.     It  was  crowded  with 

customers  when  she  entered,  and  so  she  shrunk  away  to 

the  back  part  of  the  store,  until  Mrs. should  be  more 

at  leisure,  and  she  could  bargain  with  her  without  attract 
ing  attention.  She  had  stood  there  only  a  few  moments, 
when  her  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a  familiar  voice — that 
of  Mary  Williams,  one  of  her  former  most  intimate  asso 
ciates.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  spring  forward,  but  a 
remembrance  of  her  changed  condition  instantly  recurring 
to  her,  she  turned  more  away  from  the  light,  so  as  to 
effectually  conceal  herself  from  the  young  lady's  observa 
tion.  This  she  was  enabled  to  do,  although  Mary  Wil 
liams  came  once  or  twice  so  near  as  to  brush  her  garments. 
How  oppressively  did  her  heart  beat,  at  such  moments ! 
Old  thoughts  and  old  feelings  came  rushing  back  upon  her, 
and  in  the  contrast  they  occasioned  between  the  past  and 
the  present,  she  was  almost  overwhelmed  with  despon 
dency.  Customer  after  customer  came  in,  as  one  and 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  191 

another  retired,  many  of  whose  faces  were  familiar  to 
Mary  as  old  friends  and  acquaintances.  At  last,  however, 
after  waiting  nearly  two  hours,  she  made  out  to  get  an 
interview  with  Mrs. . 

"Well,  Miss,  what  do  you  want?"  asked  that  person 
age,  as  Mary  came  up  before  her  where  she  still  stood  at 
the  counter,  for  she  had  observed  her  waiting  in  the  store 

for  some  time.  Mrs. either  did  not  remember,  or 

cared  not  to  remember,  her  old  customer,  who  had  spent, 
with  her  sisters,  many  hundreds  of  dollars  in  her  store,  in 
times  past. 

"  I  have  a  couple  of  fine  wrought  capes  that  I  should 
like  to  sell,"  Mary  said,  in  a  timid,  hesitating  voice, 
unrolling,  at  the  same  time,  the  articles  she  named. 

"Are  they  French?"  asked  Mrs. ,  without  pausing 

in  her  employment  of  rolling  up  some  goods,  to  take  and 
examine  the  articles  proffered  her. 

"No,  ma'am;  they  are  some  of  my  own  and  sister's 
work." 

"  They  won't  do,  then,  Miss.  Nothing  in  the  way  of 
fine  collars  and  capes  will  sell,  unless  they  are  French." 

Mary  felt  chilled  at  heart  as  Mrs. said  this,  and 

commenced  slowly  rolling  up  her  capes,  faint  with  disap 
pointment.  As  she  was  about  turning  from  the  counter 
Mrs. said,  in  rather  an  indifferent  tone, 

"  Suppose  you  let  me  look  at  them." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  think  them  very  beautiful,"  Mary 
replied,  quickly  unrolling  her  little  bundle.  "  They  have 
been  wrought  with  great  care." 

"  Sure  enough,  they  are  quite  well  done,"  Mrs.  

said,  coldly,  as  she  glanced  her  eyes  over  the  capes. 
"  Almost  equal  in  appearance  to  the  French.  But  they 
are  only  domestic;  and  domestic  embroidered  work 
won't  bring  scarcely  anything.  What  do  you  ask  for 
these  ?" 

"  We  have  set  no  price  upon  them ;  but  think  that 
tney  are  richly  worth  five  or  six  dollars  apiece." 

"  Five  or  six  dollars !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  ,  in  well 

feigned  surprise,  handing  back,  suddenly,  the  capes.  "O! 
no,  Miss ; — American  goods  don't  bring  any  such  prices." 

"  Then  what  will  you  give  for  them,  Madam  ?" 

"  If  you  feel  like  taking  two  dollars  apiece  for  them, 


192  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

you  can  leave  them.  But  I  am  not  particular," 
Mrs. said,  in  a  careless  tone. 

"  Two  dollars !"  repeated  Mary,  in  surprise.  "  Surely, 
Mrs. ,  they  are  worth  more  than  two  dollars  apiece!" 

"  I'm  not  at  all  anxious  to  give  you  even  that  for  them," 

said  Mrs. .  "  Not  at  all ;  for  I  am  by  no  means  sure 

that  I  shall  ever  get  my  money  back  again." 

"  You  will  have  to  take  them,  then,  I  suppose,"  Mary 
replied,  in  a  disappointed  and  desponding  tone. 

"  Very  well,  Miss,  I  will  give  you  what  I  said."  And 

Mrs. took  the  capes,  and  handed  Mary  Graham  four 

dollars  in  payment. 

"  If  we  should  conclude  to  work  any  more,  may  we 
calculate  on  getting  the  same  money  for  them?" 

"  I  can't  say  positively,  Miss ;  but  I  think  that  you  may 
calculate  on  that  price  for  as  many  as  you  will  bring." 

Mary  took  the  money,  and  turned  away.  It  was  only 

half  an  hour  after,  that  Mrs. sold  one  of  them,  as 

"French,"  for  twelve  dollars  ! 

Sadly,  indeed,  were  the  sisters  disappointed  at  this 
result.  But  nothing  better  offering  that  they  could  do, 
they  devoted  themselves,  late  and  early,  to  their  needles, 
the  proceeds  of  which  rarely  went  over  five  dollars  per 
week ;  for  two  years  they  continued  to  labour  thus. 

At  the  end  of  that  period,  Anna  sunk  under  her  self- 
imposed  task,  and  lay  ill  for  many  weeks.  Especially 
forbidden  by  the  physician,  on  her  recovery,  to  enter 
again  upon  sedentary  employments,  Anna  cast  earnestly 
about  her  for  some  other  means  whereby  to  earn  some 
thing  for  the  common  stock.  Necessity,  during  the  past 
two  years,  had  driven  her  frequently  into  business  parts 
of  the  city  for  the  purchase  of  materials  such  as  they 
used.  Her  changed  lot  gave  her  new  eyes,  and  her 
observations  were  necessarily  made  upon  a  new  class  of 
facts.  She  had  seen  shop-girls  often  enough  before,  but 
she  had  never  felt  any  sympathy  with  them,  nor  thought 
of  gaining  any  information  about  them.  They  might 
receive  one  dollar  a  week,  or  twenty,  or  work  for  nothing 
— it  was  all  the  same  to  her.  Even  if  any  one  had  given 
her  correct  information  on  the  subject,  she  would  have 
forgotten  it  in  ten  minutes.  But  now,  it  was  a  matter  of 
interest  to  know  how  much  they  could  make — and  she 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  193 

had  obtained  a  knowledge  of  the  fact,  that  they  earned 
from  three  to  six  and  seven  dollars  a  week,  according  to 
their  capacities  or  the  responsibility  of  their  stations. 

When,  therefore,  her  shattered  health  precluded  her 
from  longer  plying  her  needle,  much  as  she  shrank  from 
the  publicity  and  exposure  of  the  position,  she  resolutely 
set  about  endeavouring  to  obtain  a  situation  as  saleswoman 
in  some  retail  dry-goods  store.  One  of  the  girls  in  Mrs. 

's  store,  who  knew  all  about  her  family,  and  deeply 

commiserated  her  condition,  interested  herself  for  her, 
and  succeeded  in  getting  her  a  situation,  at  four  dollars  a 
week,  in  Second-street.  To  enter  upon  the  employment 
that  now  awaited  her,  was  indeed  a  severe  trial ;  but  she 
went  resolutely  forward,  in  the  way  that  duty  called. 

The  sudden  change  from  a  sedentary  life  to  one  of 
activity,  where  she  had  to  be  on  her  feet  all  day,  tried 
her  feeble  strength  severely.  It  was  with  difficulty  that 
she  could  sometimes  keep  up  at  all,  and  she  went  homo 
frequently  at  night  in  a  burning  fever.  But  she  gradually 
acquired  a  kind  of  power  of  endurance,  that  kept  her  up. 
She  did  not  seem  to  suffer  less,  but  had  more  strength,  as 
it  were,  to  bear  up,  and  hold  on  with  unflinching  resolu 
tion.  ^ 

Thus  she  had  gone  on  for  two  or  three  years,  at  the 
time  she  was  again  introduced,  with  her  mother  and 
sister,  to  the  reader. 

As  for  their  father,  his  whole  stock  of  liquors  had  been 
exhausted  for  nearly  two  years,  and,  during  that  time,  he 
had  resorted  to  many  expedients  to  obtain  the  potations 
he  so  much  loved.  Finally,  he  became  so  lost  to  all 
sense  of  right  or  feeling,  that  he  would  take  money,  or 
anything  he  could  carry  off  from  the  house,  for  the  pur 
pose  of  obtaining  liquor.  This  system  had  stripped  them 
of  many  necessary  articles,  as  well  as  money,  and  added 
very  greatly  to  their  distress,  as  well  as  embarrassments. 

At  last,  everything  that  he  could  take  had  been  taken, 
and  as  neither  his  wife  nor  daughters  would  give  him  any 
money,  his  supply  of  stimulus  was  cut  off,  and  he  became 
almost  mad  with  the  intolerable  desire  that  was  burning 
within  him  for  the  fiery  poison  which  had  robbed  him  of 
rationality  and  freedom. 

"  Give  me  some  money !"  he  said,  in  an  excited  tone, 
to  his  wife,  coming  in  hurriedly  from  the  street,  one  day 


194  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

about  this  time.  His  face  was  dark  and  red,  as  if  there 
were  a  congestion  of  the  blood  in  the  veins  of  the  skin, 
while  his  hands  trembled,  and  his  whole  frame  was 
strongly  agitated.  Those  who  had  been  familiar  with 
that  old  man,  years  before,  would  hardly  have  recognized 
him  now,  in  his  old  worn  and  faded  garments. 

"  I  have  no  money  for  you,"  his  wife  replied.  "  You 
have  already  stripped  us  of  nearly  everything  " 

"  Buy  me  some  brandy,  then." 

"No.  I  cannot  do  that  either.  Brandy  has  cursed 
you  and  your  family.  Why  do  you  not  abandon  it  for 
ever  1" 

"I  must  have  brandy,  or  die !  Give  me  something  to 
drink,  in  the  name  of  heaven !" 

The  wild  look  that  her  husband  threw  upon  her,  alarmed 
Mrs.  Graham,  and  she  hesitated  no  longer,  but  handed 
him  a  small  piece  of  money.  Quick  as  thought,  he 
turned  away  and  darted  from  the  house. 

It  was,  perhaps,  after  the  lapse  of  about  half  an  hour 
that  he  returned.  He  opened  the  door,  when  he  did  so, 
quietly,  and  stood  looking  into  the  room  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  Then  he  turned  his  head  quickly  from  the  right 
to  the  left,  glancing  fearfully  behind  him  once  or  twice. 
In  a  moment  or  two  afterwards  he  started  forward,  with 
a  strong  expression  of  alarm  upon  his  countenance,  and 
seated  himself  close  beside  Mrs.  Graham,  evidently  in  the 
hope  of  receiving  her  protection  from  some  dreaded  evil. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  quickly  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gra 
ham,  starting  up  with  a  frightened  look. 

"It  is  really  dreadful!"  he  said.  "What  can  it  all 
mean  ?' 

"  What  is  dreadful  ?"  asked  his  wife,  her  heart  throb 
bing  with  an  unknown  terror. 

"  There !  Did  you  ever  see  such  an  awful  sight  ? 
Ugh !"  and  he  shrunk  behind  her  chair,  and  covered  his 
eyes  with  his  hands. 

"I  se  nothing,  Mr.  Graham,"  his  wife  said,  after  a 
few  moments  of  hurried  thought,  in  which  she  began  to 
comprehend  the  fact  that  her  husband's  mind  was  wan 
dering. 

"There  is  nothing  here  that  will  hurt  you,  father," 
Mary  added,  coming  up  to  him,  as  her  own  mind  arrived 
at  a  conclusion  similar  to  her  mother's. 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  195 

"  Nothing  to  hurt  me !"  suddenly  screamed  the  old  man, 
springing  to  his  feet,  and  throwing  himself  backwards 
half  across  the  room ;  "  and  that  horrible  creature  already 
twining  himself  about  my  neck,  and  strangling  me !  Take  it 
off!  take  it  off!"  he  continued,  in  a  wild  cry  of  terror,  ma 
king  strong  efforts  to  tear  something  away  from  his  throat. 

"  Take  it  off'!  Why  don't  you  take  it  off!  Don't  you 
see  that  it  is  choking  me  to  death !  Oh!  oh!  oh!"  (uttered 
in  a  terrific  scream.) 

Panting,  screaming  and  struggling,  he  continued  in  this 
state  of  awful  alarm,  vainly  endeavouring  to  extricate  him 
self  from  the  toils  of  an  imaginary  monster,  that  was  suffo 
cating  him,  until  he  sank  exhausted  to  the  floor. 

Happily  for  his  alarmed  and  distressed  family,  two  or 
three  neighbours,  who  had  been  startled  by  the  old  man's 
screams,  came  hurriedly  in,  and  soon  comprehended  the 
nature  of  his  aberration.  A  brief  consultation  among 
themselves  determined  them,  understanding,  as  they  did 
perfectly,  the  condition  of  the  family>  and  his  relation  to 
them,  to  remove  him  at  once  to  the  Aims-House,  where 
he  could  get  judicious  medical  treatment,  and  be  out  of  the 
sight  and  hearing  of  his  wife  and  children. 

One  of  them  briefly  explained  to  Mrs.  Graham,  and 
Mary,  the  nature  of  his  mental  affection,  and  the  absolute 
necessity  that  there  was  for  his  being  placed  where  the 
most  skilful  and  judicious  management  of  his  case  could 
be  had.  After  some  time,  he  gained  their  reluctant  con 
sent  to  have  him  taken  to  the  Aims-House.  A  carriage 
•was  then  obtained,  and  he  forced  into  it,  amid  the  tears 
and  remonstrances  of  the  wife  and  daughter,  who  had 
already  repented  of  their  acquiescence  in  what  their  judg 
ment  had  approved.  Old  affection  had  rushed  back  upon 
their  hearts,  and  feelings  became  stronger  than  reason. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  this 
occurred.  Early  on  the  next  morning,  Mrs.  Graham,  with 
Mary  and  Anna,  went  out  to  see  him.  Their  inquiries 
about  his  condition  were  vaguely  answered,  and  with 
seeming  reluctance,  or  as  it  appeared  to  them,  with  indif 
ference.  At  length  the  matron  of  the  institution  asked 
them  to  go  with  her,  and  they  followed  on,  through  halls 
and  galleries,  until  they  came  to  a  room,  the  door  of  which 
she  opened,  with  a  silent  indication  for  them  to  enter. 

They  entered  alone.    Everything  was  hushed,  and  the 


196  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

silence  that  of  the  chamber  of  death.  In  the  centre  of 
the  room  lay  the  old  man.  A  single  glance  told  the  fearful 
tale.  He  was  dead  !  Dead  in  the  pauper's  home !  Seven 
years  before,  a  millionaire — now  sleeping  his  last  sleep  in 
the  dead-room  of  an  Aims-House,  and  his  beggared  wife 
and  children  weeping  over  him  in  heart-broken  and  hope 
less  sorrow. 

From  that  time  the  energies  of  Mary  and  Anna  seemed 
paralyzed;  and  it  was  only  with  a  strong  effort  that  Mrs. 
Graham  could  rouse  herself  from  the  stupor  of  mind  and 
body  that  had  settled  upon  her. 

Mrs.  Graham  and  her  two  daughters  had  nearly  finished 
their  evening  meal,  at  the  close  of  the  day  alluded  to  some 
pages  back,  when  the  sound  of  rapidly  hurrying  footsteps 
was  heard  on  the  pavement.  In  a  moment  after,  a  heavy 
blow  was  given  just  at  their  door,  and  some  one  fell  with 
a  groan  against  it.  The  weight  of  the  body  forced  it  open, 
and  the  son  and  brother  rolled  in  upon  the  floor,  with  the 
blood  gushing  from  a  ghastly  wound  in  his  forehead.  His 
assailant  instantly  fled.  Bloated,  disfigured,  in  coarse  and 
worn  clothing,  how  different,  even  when  moving  about, 
was  he  from  the  genteel,  well-dressed  young  man  of  a  few 
years  back  !  Idleness  and  dissipation  had  wrought  as  great 
a  change  upon  him  as  it  had  upon  his  father,  while  he  was 
living.  Now  he  presented  a  shocking  and  loathsome  ap 
pearance. 

The  first  impulse  of  Mary  was  to  run  for  a  physician, 
while  the  mother  and  Anna  attempted  to  stanch  the  flow 
of  blood,  that  had  already  formed  a  pool  upon  the  floor. 
Assistance  was  speedily  obtained,  and  the  wound  dressed ; 
but  the  young  man  remained  insensible.  As  the  physician 
turned  from  the  door,  Mrs.  Graham  sank  fainting  upon  her 
bed.  Over-tried  nature  could  bear  up  no  longer. 

"  Doctor,  what  do  you  think  of  him  ?"  asked  the  mother, 
anxiously,  three  days  after,  as  the  physician  came  out  of 
Alfred's  room.  Since  the  injury  he  had  received,  he  had 
lain  in  a  stupor,  but  with  much  fever. 

"  His  case,  Madam,  is  an  extremely  critical  one.  I  have 
tried  in  vain  to  control  that  fever." 

"Do  you  think  him  very  dangerous,  Doctor?"  Mary 
asked,  in  a  husky  voice. 

"  I  certainly  do.     And,  to  speak  to  you  the  honest  truth, 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  197 

I  have,  myself,  no  hope  of  his  recovery.  1  think  it  right 
that  you  should  know  this." 

"No  hope,  Doctor!"  Mrs.  Graham  said,  laying  her 
hand  upon  the  physician's  arm,  while  her  face  grew  deadly 
pale.  "  No  hope  ! — My  only  son  die  thus  ! — O !  Doctor, 
can  you  not  save  him  ?" 

"  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power,  Madam.  But  I  will  not 
flatter  you  with  false  hopes.  It  will  be  little  less  than  a 
miracle  should  he  survive." 

The  mother  and  sisters  turned  away  with  an  air  of 
hopelessness  from  the  physician,  and  he  retired  slowly,  and 
with  oppressed  feelings. 

When  they  returned  to  the  sick  chamber,  a  great  change 
had  already  taken  place  in  Alfred.  The  prediction  of  the 
physician,  it  was  evident  to  each,  as  all  bent  eagerly  over 
him,  was  about  to  be  too  surely  and  too  suddenly  realized. 
His  face,  from  being  slightly  flushed  with  fever,  had  become 
sunken,  and  ghastly  pale,  and  his  respiration  so  feeble  that 
it  was  almost  imperceptible. 

The  last  and  saddest  trial  of  this  ruined  family  had  come. 
The  son  and  brother,  for  whom  now  rushed  back  upon 
their  hearts  the  tender  and  confiding  affection  of  earlier 
years,  was  lingering  upon  life's  extremest  verge.  It 
seemed  that  they  could  not  give  him  up.  They  felt  that, 
even  though  he  were  neglectful  of  them,  they  could  not  do 
without  him.  He  was  a  son  and  brother;  and,  while  he 
lived,  there  was  still  hope  of  his  restoration.  The  strength 
of  that  hope,  entertained  by  each  in  the  silent  chambers 
of  affection,  was  unknown  before — its  trial  revealed  its 
power  over  each  crushed  and  sinking  heart. 

But  the  passage  of  each  moment  brought  plainer  and 
more  palpable  evidence  of  approaching  dissolution.  For 
about  ten  minutes  he  had  lain  so  still,  that  they  were  sud 
denly  aroused  by  the  fear  that  he  might  be  already  dead 
Softly  did  the  mother  lay  her  hand  upon  his  forehead.  Its 
cold  and  clammy  touch  sent  an  icy  thrill  to  her  heart 
Then  she  bent  her  ear  to  catch  even  the  feeblest  breath — 
but  she  could  distinguish  none. 

"  He  is  dead  !"  she  murmured,  sinking  down  and  bury 
ing  her  face  in  the  bed-clothes. 

The  cup  of  their  sorrow  was,  at  last,  full  —  full  and 
running  over ! 


THE 

RUINED     FAMILY 

PART    SECOND. 


STUNNED  by  this  new  affliction,  which  seemed  harder 
to  bear  than  any  of  the  terrible  ones  that  had  gone  before, 
Mrs.  Graham  sunk  into  a  state  of  half  unconsciousness ; 
but  Anna  still  lingered  over  the  insensible  body  of  her 
brother,  and  though  reason  told  her  that  the  spirit  had 
taken  its  everlasting  departure,  her  heart  still  hoped  that 
it  might  not  be  so, — that  a  spark  yet  remained  which  would 
rekindle. 

The  pressure  of  her  warm  hand  upon  his  cold,  damp 
forehead,  mocked  her  hopes.  His  motionless  chest  told 
of  the  vanity  of  her  fond  anticipations  of  seeing  his  heart 
again  quicken  into  living  activity.  And  yet,  she  could 
not  give  him  up.  She  could  not  believe  that  he  was  dead. 
As  she  still  hung  over  him,  it  seemed  to  her  that  there 
was  a  slight  twitching  of  the  muscles  about  the  neck. 
How  suddenly  did  her  heart  bound  and  throb  until  its 
strong  pulsations  pained  her !  Eagerly  did  she  bend  down 
upon  him,  watching  for  some  more  palpable  sign  of  re 
turning  animation.  But  nothing  met  either  her  eye  or 
her  ear  that  strengthened  the  newly  awakened  hope. 

After  waiting,  vainly,  for  some  minutes,  until  the  feeble 
hope  she  had  entertained  began  to  fail,  Anna  stepped 
quickly  to  the  mantelpiece,  and  lifted  from  it  a  small 
looking-glass,  with  which  she  returned  to  the  bedside. 
Holding  this  close  to  the  face  of  her  brother,  she  watched 
the  surface  with  an  eager  anxiety  that  almost  caused  the 
beating  of  her  heart  to  cease.  As  a  slight  mist  slowly 
gathered  upon  the  glass  and  obscured  its  surface,  Anna 
198 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  199 

cried  out  with  a  voice  that  thrilled  the  bosoms  of  her 
mother  and  sister — 

"  He  lives !  he  lives !"  and  gave  way  to  a  gush  of 
tears. 

This  sudden  exclamation,  of  course,  brought  Mrs. 
Graham  and  Mary  to  the  bedside,  who  instantly  com 
prehended  the  experiment  which  Anna  had  been  making 
and  understood  the  result.  The  mother,  in  turn,  with 
trembling  hands,  lifted  the  mirror,  and  held  it  close  to  the 
face  of  her  son.  In  a  moment  or  two,  its  surface  was 
obscured,  plainly  indicating  that  respiration,  though  almost 
imperceptible,  was  still  going  on, — tf»at  life  still  lingered 
in  the  feeble  body  before  them. 

Gradually,  now,  the  flame  that  had  well-nigh  gone  out, 
kindled  up  again,  but  so  slowly,  that  for  many  hours  the 
mother  and  sisters  were  in  doubt  whether  it  were  really 
brightening  or  not.  The  fever  that  had  continued  for 
several  days,  exhausting  the  energies  of  the  young  man's 
system,  had  let  go  its  hold,  because  scarcely  enough  vital 
energy  remained  for  it  to  subsist  upon.  In  its  subsidence, 
life  trembled  on  the  verge  of  extinction.  But  there  was 
yet  sufficient  stamina  for  it  to  rally  upon;  and  it  did  rally, 
and  gradually,  but  very  slowly,  gained  strength. 

In  an  earnest  spirit  of  thankfulness  for  this  restoration 
of  Alfred,  did  the  mother  and  sisters  look  up  to  the  Giver 
of  all  good,  and  with  tearful  devotion  pray  that  there 
might  ensue  a  moral  as  well  as  a  physical  restoration. 
For  years,  they  had  not  felt  towards  him  the  deep  and 
yearning  tenderness  that  now  warmed  their  bosoms. 
They  longed  to  rescue  him,  not  for  their  sakes,  but  for  his 
own,  from  the  horrible  pit  and  the  miry  clay  into  which 
he  had  fallen. 

"  O,  if  we  could  but  save  him,  sister !"  Anna  said,  as 
she  sat  conversing  with  Mary,  after  all  doubt  of  his  re 
covery  had  been  removed.  "  If  we  could  only  do  some 
thing  to  restore  our  brother  to  himself,  how  glad  I  should 
be!" 

"I  would  do  anything  in  my  power,"  Mary  replied, 
"  and  sacrifice  everything  that  it  was  right  to  sacrifice, 
if,  by  so  doing,  I  could  help  Alfred  to  conquer  his  beset 
ting  evils.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  feel  about  it.  It  seems 
as  if  it  would  break  my  heart  to  have  him  return  again 


200  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

into  his  old  habits  of  life:  and  yet,  what  have  we  to  found 
a  hope  upon,  that  he  will  not  so  return  ?" 

"  I  feel  just  as  you  do  about  it,  Mary,"  her  sister  said. 
"  The  same  yearning  desire  to  save  him,  and  the  same 
hopelessness  as  to  the  means." 

"  There  is  one  way,  it  seems  to  me,  in  which  we  might 
influence  him." 

"  What  is  that,  Mary  ?" 

"  Let  us  manifest  towards  him,  fully,  the  real  affection 
that  we  feel ;  perhaps  that  may  awaken  a  chord  in  his 
own  bosom,  and  thus  lead  him,  for  our  sakes,  to  enter 
upon  a  new  course  o/  life." 

"  We  can  at  least  try,  Mary.  It  can  do  no  harm,  and 
may  result  in  good." 

With  the  end  of  his  reformation  in  view,  the  two  sis 
ters,  during  his  convalescence,  attended  him  with  the 
most  assiduous  and  affectionate  care.  The  moment  Anna 
would  come  home  from  the  store  at  night,  she  would 
repair  with  a  smiling  countenance  to  his  bedside,  and 
although  usually  so  fatigued  as  to  be  compelled  to  rally 
her  spirits  with  an  effort,  she  would  seem  so  interested 
and  cheerful  and  active  to  minister  in  some  way  to  his 
pleasure,  that  Alfred  began  to  look  forward  every  day  as 
the  evening  approached,  with  a  lively  interest,  for  her 
return.  This  Mary  observed,  and  it  gave  her  hope. 

Three  weeks  soon  passed  away,  when  Alfred  was  so 
far  recovered  as  to  be  able  to  walk  out. 

"  Do  not  walk  far,  brother,"  Mary  said,  laying  her  hand 
gently  upon  his  arm,  and  looking  him  with  affectionate 
earnestness  in  the  face.  "  You  are  very  weak,  and  the 
fatigue  might  bring  on  a  relapse." 

"  I  shall  only  walk  a  little  way,  Mary,"  he  replied,  as 
he  opened  the  door  and  went  out. 

Neither  the  mother  nor  sister  could  utter  the  fear  that 
each  felt,  lest  Alfred  should  meet  with  and  fall  in  tempta 
tion  before  he  returned.  This  fear  grew  stronger  and 
stronger,  as  the  minutes  began  to  accumulate,  and  lengthen 
to  an  hour.  A  period  of  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  was  as 
long  as  they  had  any  idea  of  his  remaining  away.  Where 
could  he  be?  Had  he  been  taken  sick;  or  was  he  again 
yielding  to  the  seductions  of  a  depraved  and  degrading 
appetite?  The  suspense  became  agonizing  to  their  hearts, 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  201 

as  not  only  one,  but  two,  and  even  three  hours  passed, 
bringing  the  dim  twilight,  and  yet  he  returned  not. 

In  the  meantime,  the  young  man,  whose  appearance 
the  careful  hand  of  Mary  and  her  sister  had  been  render 
ed  far  superior  to  what  it  had  been  for  years  past,  went 
out  from  his  mother's  humble  dwelling,  and  took  his  way 
slowly  down  one  of  the  streets,  leading  to  the  main  por 
tion  of  the  city,  with  many  thoughts  of  a  painful  character 
passing  through  his  mind.  The  few  weeks  that  he  had 
been  confined  to  the  house,  and  in  constant  association 
with  his  mother,  and  one  or  both  of  his  sisters,  who 
were  at  home,  had  startled  his  mind  into  reflection.  He 
could  not  but  contrast  their  constant  and  affectionate 
devotion  to  him,  with  his  own  shameful  and  criminal 
neglect  of  them.  Conceal  her  real  feelings  as  she  would, 
it  did  not  escape  his  notice,  that  when  Anna  came  home 
at  night,  she  was  so  much  exhausted  as  to  be  hardly  able 
to  sit  up ;  and  as  for  Mary,  often  when  she  dreamed  not 
that  he  was  observing  her,  had  he  noticed  her  air  of 
languor  and  exhaustion,  and  her  half-stifled  expression  of 
pain,  as  she  bent  resolutely  over  her  needle-work.  Never 
before  had  he  felt  so  indignant  towards  Ellen's  husband 
for  his  neglect  and  abuse  of  her,  his  once  favourite  sister; 
and,  indeed,  the  favourite  of  the  whole  family. 

It  was,  to  his  own  mind,  a  mystery  how  he  ever  could 
have  sunk  so  low,  and  become  so  utterly  regardless  of  his 
mother  and  sisters. 

"  Wretch !  wretch !  miserable  wretch  that  I  am  !"  he 
would,  sometimes,  mentally  exclaim,  turning  his  face  to 
the  wall  as  he  lay  reviewing,  involuntarily,  his  past  life. 
Uniformly  it  happened,  that  following  such  a  crisis  in  his 
feelings,  would  be  some  affectionate  word  or  kind  atten 
tion  from  Mary  or  his  mother,  smiting  upon  his  heart  with 
emotions  of  the  keenest  remorse. 

It  was  under  the  influence  of  such  feelings  that  he  went 
out  on  the  afternoon  just  alluded  to.  Still,  no  settled  plan 
of  reformation  had  been  formed  in  his  mind,  for  the  dis 
couraging  question  would  constantly  arise  while  ponder 
ing  gloomily  over  his  condition  and  the  condition  of  the 
family. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?" 

To  this;  he  could  find  no  satisfactory  answer.     Three 


202  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

or  four  years  of  debasing  drunkenness,  had  utterly  sepa 
rated  him  from  those  who  had  it  in  their  power  to  encour 
age  and  strengthen  his  good  desires, — and  to  put  him  in 
the  way  of  providing  for  himself  and  his  family,  by  an 
industrious  application  to  some  kind  of  business. 

He  had  walked  slowly  on,  in  painful  abstraction,  for 
about  five  minutes,  when  a  hand  was  laid  on  his  arm,  and 
a  familiar  voice  said — 

"  Is  this  you,  Graham !  Where  in  the  name  of  Pluto 
have  you  been,  for  the  last  three  weeks  ?  Why,  how  blue 
you  look  about  the  gills !  Havn't  been  sick,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  have,  Harry,"  Alfred  replied,  in  a  feeble 
voice.  "  It  came  very  near  being  all  over  with  me." 

"  Indeed  !  Well,  what  was  the  matter  ?" 

Raising  his  hat,  and  displaying  a  long  and  still  angry- 
looking  wound  on  the  side  of  his  head,  from  which  the 
hair  had  been  carefully  cut  away,  he  said — 

"Do  you  see  that?" 

"  I  reckon  I  do." 

"Well,  that  came  very  near  doing  the  business  for 
me." 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know,  myself.  I  was  drunk,  I  suppose,  and 
quarrelled  with  some  one,  or  insulted  some  one  in  the 
street — and  this  was  the  consequence." 

"  Really,  Graham,  you  have  made  a  narrow  escape." 

"  Havn't  1 1  It  kept  me  in  bed  for  nearly  three  weeks, 
and  now,  I  can  just  totter  about.  This  is  the  first  time  I 
have  been  outside  of  the  house  since  it  happened." 

"  You  certainly  do  look  weak  and  feeble  enough,"  re 
plied  his  old  friend  and  crony,  who  added,  in  a  moment 
after, 

"  But  come  !  take  a  drink  with  me  at  the  tavern  across 
here.  You  stand  in  need  of  something." 

"  No  objection,  and  thank  you,"  Alfred  rejoined,  at  once 
moving  over  towards  a  well-known,  low  tavern,  quench 
ing  in  imagination  a  morbid  thirst  that  seemed  instantly 
created,  by  a  draught  of  sweetened  liquor. 

"What  will  you  take?"  asked  his  friend,  as  the  two 
came  up  to  the  counter. 

"  I  '11  take  a  mint  sling,"  Alfred  replied. 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  203 

"  Two  mint  slings,"  said  his  companion,  giving  his 
orders  to  the  bar-keeper. 

"  Hallo,  Graham  !  Is  this  you?"  exclaimed  one  or  two 
loungers,  coming  forward,  and  shaking  him  heartily  by 
the  hand.  "  We  had  just  made  up  our  minds  that  you 
had  joined  the  cold-water  army." 

"  Indeed !"  suddenly  ejaculated  Graham,  an  instant 
consciousness  of  what  he  was,  where  he  was,  and  what 
he  was  about  to  do,  flashing  over  his  mind.  "  I  wish  to 
heaven  your  conclusion  had  been  true !" 

This  sudden  change  in  his  manner,  and  his  earnestly, 
indeed  solemnly  expressed  wish,  were  received  with  a 
burst  of  laughter. 

"  Here  Dan,"  said  one,  to  the  ba-r-keeper,  "  havn't  you 
a  pledge  for  him  to  sign." 

"  O,  yes  !  Bring  a  pledge !  Bring  a  pledge  !  Has  no  one 
a  pledge  ?"  rejoined  another,  in  a  tone  of  ridicule. 

"  Yes,  here  is  one,"  said  a  man  in  a  firm  tone,  entering 
the  shop  at  the  moment.  "  Who  wants  to  sign  the 
pledge  ?» 

"  I  do  !"  Graham  said,  in  a  calm  voice. 

"  Then  here  it  is,"  the  stranger  replied,  drawing  a  sheet 
of  paper  from  his  pocket,  and  unrolling  it. 

"  Give  me  a  pen  Dan,"  Alfred  said,  turning  to  the  bar 
keeper. 

"  Indeed,  then,  and  I  won't,"  retorted  that  individual, 
"I'm  not  going  to  lend  a  stick  to  break  my  own  head." 

*'•  O,  never  mind,  young  man,  I  can  supply  pen  and 
ink,"  said  the  stranger,  drawing  forth  a  pocket  inkstand. 

Alfred  eagerly  seized  the  pen  that  was  offered  to  him, 
and  instantly  subscribed  the  total  abstinence  pledge. 

"  Another  fool  caught !"  sneered  one. 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha !  What  a  ridiculous  farce !"  chimed  in 
another. 

"  He  '11  be  rolling  in  the  gutter  before  three  days,  feel 
ing  upwards  for  the  ground,"  added  a  third. 

"  Why,  I  don't  believe  he  can  see  through  a  ladder 
now,"  the  first  speaker  said,  with  his  contemptuous  sneer. 
"  Look  here,  mister,"  to  the  stranger  who  had  appeared 
so  opportunely.  "  This  is  all  gammon  !  He 's  been  fool 
ing  you." 

"  Come  along,  my  friend,"  was  all  the  stranger  said, 
25 


204  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

drawing  his  arm  within  that  of  the  penitent  young  man, 
as  he  did  so, — "  this  is  no  place  for  you." 

And  the  two  walked  slowly  out,  amid  the  laughter, 
sneers,  and  open  ridicule  of  the  brutal  company.  Once 
again  in  the  open  air,  Alfred  breathed  more  freely. 

"  O,  sir,"  he  said,  grasping  the  hand  of  the  individual 
who  had  appeared  so  opportunely — "  you  have  saved  me 
from  my  last  temptation,  into  which  I  was  led  so  natural 
ly,  that  I  had  not  an  idea  of  danger.  If  I  had  fallen  then, 
as  I  fear  I  should  have  fallen  but  for  you,  I  must  have 
gone  down,  rapidly,  to  irretrievable  ruin.  How  can  I 
express  to  you  the  grateful  emotions  that  I  now  feel?" 

"  Express  them  not  to  me,  young  man,"  the  stranger 
said,  in  a  solemn  voice ;  "  but  to  him,  who  in  his  merci 
ful  providence,  sent  me  just  at  the  right  moment  to  meet 
your  last  extremity.  Look  up  to  him,  and,  whenever 
tempted,  let  your  conscious  weakness  repose  in  his  strength, 
and  no  evil  power  can  prevail  against  you.  Be  true  to 
the  resolution  of  this  hour — to  your  pledge — to  those  who 
have  claims  upon  you,  for  such,  I  know  there  must  be, 
and  you  shall  yet  fill  that  position  of  usefulness  in  society, 
which  no  one  else  but  you  can  occupy.  And  now  let  me 
advise  you  to  go  home,  and  ponder  well  this  act,  and  your 
future  course.  No  matter  how  dark  all  may  now  seem, 
light  will  spring  up.  If  you  are  anxious  to  walk  in  a 
right  path,  and  to  minister  to  those  who  have  claims  upon 
you,  the  way  will  be  made  plain.  This  encouragement  I 
can  give  you  with  confidence ;  for  twelve  months  ago,  1 
trembled  on  the  brink  of  ruin,  as  you  have  just  been  trem 
bling,  /was  once  a  slave  to  the  same  wild  infatuation 
that  has  held  you  in  bondage.  Hope,  then,  with  a  vigor 
ous  hope,  and  that  hope  will  be  a  guarantee  for  your 
future  elevation !" 

And  so  saying,  the  stranger  shook  the  hand  of  Alfred 
heartily,  and,  turning,  walked  hastily  away. 

The  young  man  had  proceeded  only  a  few  paces  when 
he  observed  his  old  friend  and  companion,  Charles  Wil 
liams,  driving  along  towards  him.  No  one  had  done  so 
much  towards  corrupting  his  morals,  and  enticing  him 
away  from  virtue,  as  that  individual.  But  he  had  check 
ed  himself  in  his  course  of  dissipation,  long  before,  while 
Alfred  had  sunk  rapidly  downward.  Years  had  oassed 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  205 

since  any  intercourse  had  taken  place  between  them,  for 
their  condition  in  life  had  long  been  as  different  as  their 
habits.  Charles  had  entered  into  business  with  his  father, 
and  was  now  active  and  enterprising,  increasing  the 
income  of  the  firm  by  his  energy  and  industry. 

His  eye  rested  upon  Graham,  the  moment  he  came  near 
enough  to  observe  him.  There  was  something  familiar 
about  his  gait  and  manner,  that  attracted  the  young  man's 
attention..  At  first,  he  did  not  distinguish,  through  the 
disguise  that  sickness  and  self-imposed  poverty  had  thrown 
over  Alfred,  his  old  companion.  But,  suddenly,  as  he  was 
about  passing,  he  recognised  him,  and  instantly  reined 
up  his  horse. 

"  It  is  only  a  few  minutes  since  I  was  thinking  about 
you,  Alfred,"  he  said.  "  How  are  you '(  But  you  do  not 
look  well.  Have  you  been  sick  1" 

"  I  have  been  very  ill,  lately,"  Alfred  Graham  replied, 
in  a  mournful  tone;  former  thoughts  and  feelings  rushing 
back  upon  him  in  consequence  of  this  unexpected  inter 
view,  and  quite  subduing  him. 

"  I  am  really  sorry  to  hear  it,"  the  young  man  said, 
sympathizingly.  "  What  has  been  the  matter  ?" 

"  A  slow  fever.'  This  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  out 
for  weeks." 

"  A  ride,  then,  will  be  of  use  to  you.  Get  up,  and  let 
me  drive  you  out  into  the  country.  The  pure  air  will 
benefit  you,  I  am  sure." 

For  "a  moment  or  two,  Alfred  stood  irresolute.  He 
could  not  believe  that  he  had  heard  aright. 

"Come,"  urged  Williams.  "We  have  often  ridden 
before,  and  let  us  have  one  more  ride,  if  we  should  never 
go  out  again  together.  I  wish  to  have  some  talk  with 
you." 

Thus  urged,  Alfred,  with  the  assistance  of  Charles 
Williams,  got  up  into  the  light  wagon,  in  which  the  latter 
was  riding,  and  in  a  moment  after  was  dashing  off  with 
nim  behind  a  spirited  horse. 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  a  day,  nearly  a  week  previ 
ous  to  this  time,  that  Mary  Williams,  or  rather  Mrs.  Har- 
wood,  —  for  Anna  and  Mary  Graham's  old  friend  had 

become  a  married  woman — entered  the  store  of  Mrs. 

on  Chestnut-street,  for  the  purchase  of  some  goods 


206  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

While  one  of  the  girls  in  attendance  was  waiting  upon 
her,  she  observed  a  young  woman,  neatly,  but  poorly 
clad,  whom  she  had  often  seen  there  before,  come  in, 
and  go  back  to  the  far  end  of  the  store.  In  a  little  while, 
Mrs.  — —  joined  her,  and  received  from  her  a  small  pack 
age,  handing  her  some  money  in  return,  when  the  young 
woman  retired,  and  walked  quickly  away.  This  very 
operation  Mrs.  Harwood  had  several  times  seen  repeated 
before,  and  each  time  she  had  felt  much  interested  in  the 
timid  and  retiring  stranger,  a  glance  at  whose  face  she 
had  never  been  able  to  gain. 

"  Who  is  that  young  woman  ?"  she  asked  of  the  indi 
vidual  in  attendance. 

"  She 's  a  poor  girl,  that  Mrs. buys  fine  work  from, 

out  of  mere  charity,  she  says." 

"  Do  you  know  her  name  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  it,  ma'am,  but  forget  it." 
.     "Have   you    any   very   fine   French   worked    capes, 

Mrs. ,"  asked  Mrs.  Harwood,  as  the  individual  she 

addressed  came  up  to  that  part  of  the  counter  where  she 
was  standing,  still  holding  in  her  hand  the  small  package 
which  had  been  received  from  the  young  woman.  This 
Mrs.  Harwood  noticed. 

"  O,  yes,  ma'am,  some  of  the  most  beautiful  in  the 
city." 

"  Let  me  see  them,  if  you  please." 

A  box  was  brought,  and  its  contents,  consisting  of  a 
number  of  very  rich  patterns  of  the  article  asked  for, 
displayed. 

"  What  is  the  price  of  this  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Harwood, 
lifting  one,  the  pattern  of  which  pleased  her  fancy. 

"That  is  a  little  damaged,"  Mrs. replied.     "But 

here  is  one  of  the  same  pattern,"  unrolling  the  small  par 
cel  she  had  still  continued  to  hold  in  her  hand,  "  which 
has  just  been  returned  by  a  lady,  to  whom  I  sent  it  for 
examination  this  morning." 

"It  is  the  same  pattern,  but  much  more  beautifully 
wrought,"  Mrs.  Harwood  said,  as  she  examined  it  care 
fully.  "  These  are  all  French,  you  say  ?" 

"  Of  course,  ma'am.  None  but  French  goods  come 
of  such  exquisite  fineness." 

"  What  do  you  ask  for  this  ?" 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  207 

"  It  is  worth  fifteen  dollars,  ma'am.  The  pattern  is  a 
rich  one,  and  the  work  unusually  fine." 

"  Fifteen  dollars !  That  is  a  pretty  high  price,  is  it  not, 
Mrs. ?" 

"  O,  no,  indeed,  Mrs.  Harwood  !  It  cost  me  very  nearly 
fourteen  dollars — and  a  dollar  is  a  small  profit  to  make  on 
such  articles." 

After  hesitating  for  a  moment  or  two,  Mrs.  Harwood 
said — 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  give  you  that  for  it,  as  it 
pleases  me." 

And  she  took  out  her  purse,  and  paid  the  price  that 

Mrs. had  asked.     She  still  stood  musing  by  the  side 

of  the  counter,  when  the  young  woman  who  had  awakened 
her  interest  a  short  time  before,  re-entered,  and  came  up 
to  Mrs. ,  who  was  near  her. 

"  1  have  a  favour  to  ask,  Mrs. ,"  she  overheard  her 

say,  in  a  half  tremulous,  and  evidently  reluctant  tone. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  Mrs. coldly  asked. 

"  I  want  six  dollars  more  than  I  have  got,  for  a  very 
particular  purpose.  Won't  you  advance  me  the  price  of 
three  capes,  and  I  will  bring  you  in  one  a  week,  until  I 
have  made  it  up." 

"  No,  miss,"  was  the  prompt  and  decisive  answer — "  I 
never  pay  any  one  for  work  not  done.  Pay  beforehand, 
and  never  pay,  are  the  two  worst  kinds  of  pay !" 

All  this  was  distinctly  heard  by  Mrs.  Harwood,  and  her 
very  heart  ached,  as  she  saw  the  poor  girl  turn,  with  a 
disappointed  air,  away,  and  walk  slowly  out  of  the 
store. 

"That's  just  the  way  with  these  people,"  ejaculated 

Mrs. ,  in  affected  indignation,  meant  to  mislead  Mrs. 

Harwood,  who,  she  feared,  had  overheard  what  the  young 
woman  had  said.  "  They  're  always  trying  in  some  way 
or  other,  to  get  the  advantage  of  you." 

"  How  so  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Harwood,  wishing  to  learn  all 
she  could  about  the  stranger  who  had  interested  her  feel 
ings. 

"  Why,  you  see,  I  pay  that  girl  a  good  price  for  doing 
a  certain  kind  of  work  for  me,  and  the  money  is  always 
ready  for  her,  the  moment  her  work  is  done.  But,  not 
satisfied  with  that,  she  wanted  me,  just  now,  to  advance 


208  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

her  the  price  of  three  weeks'  work.  If  I  had  been  foolish 
enough  to  have  done  it,  it  would  have  been  the  last  I  ever 
should  have  seen  of  either  money,  work,  or  seamstress." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  Mrs.  Harwood  ventured  to  remark. 

"  You  don't  know  these  kind  of  people  as  well  as  I  do, 
Mrs.  Harwood.  I  've  been  tricked  too  often  in  my  time." 

"  Of  course  not,"  was  the  quiet  reply.  Then  after  a 
pause, 

"  What  kind  of  sewing  did  she  do  for  you,  Mrs. ?" 

"  Nothing  very  particular ;  only  a  little  fine  work.  1 
employ  her,  more  out  of  charity,  than  anything  else." 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  her?" 

"  She 's  old  Graham's  daughter,  I  believe.  I  'm  told  he 
died  in  the  Alms-house,  a  few  weeks  ago." 

"  What  old  Graham  ?'  Mrs.  Harwood  asked,  in  a  quick 
voice. 

"  Why,  old  Graham,  the  rich  merchant  that  was,  a  few 
years  ago.  Quite  a  tumble-down  their  pride  has  had,  I 
reckon !  Why,  I  remember  when  nothing  in  my  store 
was  good  enough  for  them.  But  they  are  glad  enough 
now  to  work  for  me  at  any  price  I  choose  to  pay  them." 

For  a  few  moments,  Mrs.  Harwood  was  so  shocked 
that  she  could  not  reply.  At  length  she  asked — 

"  Which  of  the  girls  was  it  that  I  saw  here,  just  now  I" 

"  That  was  Mary." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  Anna  ?" 

"  Yes.     She  stands  in  a  store  in  Second-street." 

"And  Ellen?" 

"  Married  to  a  drunken,  worthless  fellow,  who  abuses 
and  half  starves  her.  But  that 's  the  way ;  pride  must 
have  a  fall !" 

"  Where  do  they  live  ?"  pursued  Mrs.  Harwood. 

"Indeed,   and  that's  more  than  I  know,"  Mrs. 

replied,  tossing  her  head. 

Unable  to  gain  any  further  information,  Mrs.  Harwood 
left  the  store,  well  convinced  that  the  richly-wrought  cape, 

for  which  she  had  paid  Mrs. fifteen  dollars,  had  been 

worked  by  the  hands  of  Mary  Graham,  for  which  she 
received  but  a  mere  pittance. 

Poor  Mary  returned  home  disappointed  and  deeply 
troubled  in  mind.  She  had  about  three  dollars  in  money, 
besides  the  two  which  Mrs. had  paid  her.  If  the 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  209 

six  she  had  asked  for  had  only  been  advanced,  as  she 
fondly  hoped  would  be  the  case,  the  aggregate  sum, 
eleven  dollars,  added  to  three  which  Anna  had  saved, 
would  have  enabled  them  to  purchase  a  coat  and  hat  for 
their  brother,  who  would  be  ready  in  a  few  days  to  go 
out.  They  were  anxious  to  do  this,  under  the  hope,  that 
by  providing  him  with  clothes  of  a  more  respectable  ap 
pearance  than  he  had  been  used  to  wearing,  he  would  be 
led  to  think  more  of  himself,  seek  better  company,  and 
thus  be  further  removed  from  danger.  At  her  first  inter 
view  with  Mrs. ,  Mary's  heart  had  failed  her — and  it 

was  only  after  she  had  left  the  store  and  walked  some 
squares  homeward,  that  she  could  rally  herself  sufficiently 
to  return  and  make  her  request.  It  was  refused,  as  has 
been  seen. 

"  Did  Mrs. grant  your  request  ?"  was  almost  the 

first  question  that  Anna  asked  of  her  sister  that  evening, 
when  she  returned  from  the  store. 

"No,  Anna,  I  was  positively  refused,"  Mary  replied, 
the  tears  rising  and  almost  gushing  over  her  cheeks. 

"  Then  we  will  only  have  to  do  the  best  we  can  with 
what  little  we  have.  We  shall  not  be  able  to  get  him  a 
new  coat ;  but  we  can  have  his  old  one  done  up,  with  a 
new  collar  and  buttons, — I  priced*,  pair  of  pantaloons  at 
one  of  the  clothing-stores,  in  Market-street,  as  I  came  up 
this  evening,  and  the  man  said  three  dollars  and  a  half. 
They  looked  pretty  well.  There  was  a  vest,'  too,  for  a 
dollar.  I  heard  one  of  the  young  men  in  the  store  say, 
two  or  three  days  ago,  that  he  had  sold  his  old  hat,  which 
was  a  very  good  one,  to  the  hatter,  from  whom  he  had 
bought  a  new  one  —  or  rather,  that  the  hatter  had  taken 
the  old  one  on  account,  valued  at  a  dollar.  I  asked  him 
a  question  or  two,  and  learned  that  many  hatters  do  this, 
and  sell  the  old  hats  at  the  same  that  they  have  allowed 
for  them.  One  of  these  I  will  try  to  get, — even  if  a  good 
deal  worn;  it  will  look  far  better  than  the  one  he  has  at 
present." 

"  In  that  case,  then,"  Mary  said,  brightening  up,  "  we 
can  still  get  him  fitted  up  respectably.  O,  how  glad  1 
shall  be !  Don't  you  think,  sister,  that  we  have  good  rea 
son  to  hope  for  him  ?" 

"  I  try  to  think  so,  Mary.     But  my  heart  often  trembles 


210  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

with  fearful  apprehensions  when  I  think  of  his  going  out 
among  his  old  associates  again.  It  will  be  little  less  than 
a  miracle  if  he  should  not  fall." 

"  Don't  give  way  to  desponding  thoughts,  sister.  Let 
us  hope  so  strongly  for  the  best,  that  our  very  hope  shall 
compass  its  own  fruition.  He  cannot,  he  must  not,  go 
back !" 

Anna  did  not  reply.  Her  own  feelings  were  inclined 
to  droop  and  despond,  but  she  did  not  wish  to  have  her 
sister's  droop  and  despond  likewise.  One  reason  for  her 
saddened  feelings  arose  from  the  fact,  that  she  had  a  pain 
ful  consciousness  that  she  should  not  long  be  able  to  retain 
her  present  situation.  Her  health  was  sinking  so  rapidly, 
that  it  was  only  by  the  aid  of  strong  resolutions,  which 
lifted  her  mind  up  and  sustained  her  in  spite  of  bodily 
weakness,  that  she  was  at  all  enabled  to  get  through  with 
her  duties.  This  she  was  conscious  could  not  last  long. 

On  the  next  morning,  when  she  attempted  to  rise  from 
her  bed,  she  became  so  faint  and  sick  that  she  was  com 
pelled  to  lie  down  again.  The  feeling  of  alarm  that  in 
stantly  thrilled  through  her  bosom,  lest  she  should  no 
longer  be  able  to  minister  to  the  wants  of  her  mother, 
and  especially  of  her  brother  at  this  important  crisis  in 
his  life,  acted  as  a  stimulant  to  exhausted  nature,  and 
endowed  her  with  a  degree  of  artificial  strength  that 
enabled  her  to  make  another  and  more  successful  effort 
to  resume  her  wearying  toil. 

But  so  weak  did  she  feel,  even  after  she  had  forced 
herself  to  take  a  few  mouthfuls  of  food  at  breakfast  time, 
that  she  lingered  for  nearly  half  an  hour  longer  than  her 
usual  time  of  starting  in  order  to  allow  her  system  to  get 
a  little  braced  up,  so  that  she  could  stand  the  long  walk 
she  had  to  take. 

"  Good  by,  brother,"  she  said  in  a  cheerful  tone,  com 
ing  up  to  the  bed  upon  which  Alfred  lay,  and  stooping 
down  and  kissing  him.  "  You  must  try  and  sit  up  as 
much  as  you  can  to-day." 

"  Good  by,  Anna.  I  wish  you  didn't  have  to  go  away 
and  stay  so  long." 

To  this,  Anna  could  not  trust  herself  to  reply.  She 
only  pressed  tightly  the  hand  she  held  in  her  own,  and 
then  turned  quickly  away. 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  211 

It  was  nearly  three  quarters  of  an  hour  later  than  the 
time  the  different  clerks  were  required  to  be  at  the  store, 
•when  Anna  came  in,  her  side  and  head  both  paining  her 
badly,  in  consequence  of  having  walked  too  fast. 

"  It 's  three  quarters  of  an  hour  behind  the  time,"  the 
storekeeper  said,  with  a  look  and  tone  of  displeasure,  as 
he  drew  out  his  watch.  "  I  can't  have  such  irregularity 
in  my  store,  Miss  Graham.  This  is  the  third  time  within 
a  few  days,  that  you  have  come  late." 

A  reply  instantly  rose  to  Anna's  tongue,  but  she  felt 
that  it  would  be  useless  —  and  would,  perhaps,  provoke 
remarks  deeply  wounding  to  her  feelings.  She  paused, 
therefore,  only  a  moment,  with  a  bowed  head,  to  receive 
her  rebuke,  and  then  passed  quickly,  and  with  a  meek, 
subdued  air,  to  her  station  behind  the  counter.  There 
were  some  of  her  fellow-clerks  who  felt  for  and  pitied 
Anna  —  there  were  others  who  experienced  a  pleasure  in 
hearing  her  reproved. 

All  through  that  day,  with  only  the  respite  of  some  ten 
or  fifteen  minutes,  when  she  retired  to  eat  alone  the  frugal 
repast  of  bread  and  cold  meat  that  she  had  brought  with 
her  for  her  dinner,  did  Anna  stand  behind  the  shop-man's 
counter,  attending  to  his  customers  with  a  cheerful  air 
and  often  a  smiling  countenance.  She  spoke  to  no  one 
of  the  pain  in  her  breast,  back,  and  side ;  and  none  of 
those  around  her  dreamed  that,  from  extreme  lassitude, 
she  could  scarcely  stand  beside  the  counter. 

To  her,  suffering  as  she  did,  the  hours  passed  slowly 
and  heavily  away.  It  seemed  as  if  evening  would  never 
come  —  as  if  she  would  have  to  yield  the  struggle,  much 
as  she  strove  to  keep  up  for  the  sake  of  those  she  loved. 

But  even  to  the  weary,  the  heavy  laden,  and  the  prison 
er,  the  slow  lingering  hours  at  length  pass  on,  and  the 
moment  of  respite  comes.  The  shadows  of  evening  at 
last  began  to  fall  dimly  around,  and  Anna  retired  from 
her  position  of  painful  labour,  and  took  her  way  home 
ward.  But  not  even  the  anticipation  of  speedily  joining 
those  she  loved,  had  power  so  to  buoy  up  her  spirits,' that 
her  body  could  rise  above  its  depressed- and  weakened 
condition.  Her  weary  steps  were  slowly  taken,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  should  never  be  able  to  reach  home. 
Many,  very  many  depressing  thoughts  passed  through  her 

26 


212  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

mind  as  she  proceeded  slowly  on  her  homeward  way.  The 
condition  of  her  sister  Ellen  troubled  her  exceedingly. 
About  one-third  of  her  own  and  Mary's  earnings  were 
required  to  keep  her  and  her  little  ones  from  absolute  suf 
fering  ;  and  Mary,  like  herself,  she  too  plainly  perceived 
to  be  rapidly  sinking  under  her  burdens. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  when  we  fail,  heaven  only  knows !" 
she  murmured,  as  a  vivid  consciousness  of  approaching 
extremity  arose  in  her  mind. 

As  she  said  this,  the  idea  of  her  brother  presented 
itself,  with  the  hope  that  he  would  now  exert  for  them  a 
sustaining  and  supporting  energy  —  that  he  would  be  to 
them  at  last  a  brother.  But  this  thought,  that  made  her 
heart  leap  in  her  bosom,  she  put  aside  with  an  audible — 

"  No, — no, — Do  not  rest  on  such  a  feeble  hope  !" 

At  last  her  hand  was  upon  the  latch,  and  she  lifted  it 
and  entered. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  home  again,  Anna,"  Alfred  said, 
with  an  expression  of  real  pleasure  and  affection,  as  she 
came  in. 

"  And  I  am  glad  to  see  you  sitting  up  and  looking  so 
well,  brother,"  Anna  replied,  her  gloomy  thoughts  at  once 
vanishing.  "  How  do  you  feel  now  ?" 

"  O,  I  feel  much  better,  sister.  In  a  few  days  I  hope  I 
shall  be  able  to  go  out.  But  how  are  you  1  It  seems  to 
me  that  you  do  not  look  well." 

"I  do  feel  very  much  fatigued,  Alfred,"  Anna  said, 
while  her  tone,  in  spite  of  her  effort  to  make  it  appear 
cheerful,  became  sad.  "  We  are  not  permitted  in  our 
store  to  sit  down  for  a  moment,  and  I  get  so  tired  by 
night  that  I  can  hardly  keep  up." 

"But  surely,  Anna,  you  do  not  stand  up  all  day  long." 

"Yes.  Since  I  left  this  morning,  I  have  been  standing 
every  moment,  with  the  exception  of  the  brief  period  I 
took  to  eat  my  dinner." 

This  simple  statement  smote  upon  the  heart  of  the 
young  man,  and  made  him  silent  and  thoughtful.  He  felt 
that,  but  for  his  neglect  of  duty — but  for  his  abandonment 
of  himself  to  sensual  and  besotting  pleasures,  this  suffer 
ing,  this  self-devotion  need  not  be. 

Anna  saw  that  what  she  had  said  was  paining  the  mind 
of  her  brother,  and  she  grieved  that  she  had  been  betray- 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  213 

ed  into  making  any  allusion  to  herself.  To  restore  again 
the  pleased  expression  to  Alfred's  countenance,  she  dex 
terously  changed  the  subject  to  a  more  cheerful  one,  and 
was  rewarded  for  her  effort  by  seeing  his  eye  again 
brighten  and  the  smile  again  playing  about  his  lips. 

Instead  of  sitting  down  after  tea  and  assisting  Mary 
with  her  embroidery,  as  she  usually  did,  Anna  took  a 
book  and  read  aloud  for  the  instruction  and  amusement 
of  all;  but  most  for  the  sake  of  Alfred  —  that  he  might 
feel  with  them  a  reciprocal  pleasure,  and  thus  be  enabled 
to  perceive  that  there  was  something  substantial  to  fall 
back  upon,  if  he  would  only  consent  to  abandon  the 
bewildering  and  insane  delights  to  which  he  had  given 
himself  up  for  years.  The  effect  she  so  much  desired 
was  produced  upon  the  mind  of  her  brother.  He  did, 
indeed,  feel,  springing  up  within  him,  a  new-born  plea 
sure,  —  and  wondered  to  himself  how  he  could  so  long 
have  strayed  away  from  such  springs  of  delight,  to  seek 
bitter  waters  in  a  tangled  and  gloomy  wilderness. 

When  the  tender  good-night  was  at'  last  said,  and  Mary 
stretched  her  wearied  limbs  in  silent  thoughtfulness  beside 
her  sister,  there  was  a  feeble  hope  glimmering  in  the  dark 
and  gloomy  abyss  of  doubt  and  despondency  that  had  set 
tled  upon  her  mind  —  a  hope  that  her  brother  would  go 
forth  from  his  sick  chamber  a  changed  man.  On  this  hope, 
fancy  conjured  up  scenes  and  images  of  delight,  upon 
which  her  mind  dwelt  in  pleased  and  dreamy  abstraction, 
until  sleep  stole  upon  her,  and  locked  up  her  senses. 

When  she  awoke,  it  was  with  the  same  sinking  sensa 
tion  that  she  had  experienced  on  the  morning  previous, 
and,  indeed,  on  every  morning  for  many  months  past. 
The  remembrance  of  the  rebuke  she  had  received  on  the 
day  before  for  being  late  at  her  place  of  business,  acted 
as  a  kind  of  stimulant  to  arouse  her  to  exertion,  so  as  t& 
be  able  to  get  off  in  time.  It  was,  however,  a  few 
minutes  past  the  hour  when  she  entered  the  store,  the 
owner  of  which  looked  at  his  watch,  significantly,  as  she 
did  so. 

This  day  passed,  as  the  previous  one  had,  in  pain  and 
extreme  weariness — and  so  did  the  next,  and  the  next,  the 
poor  girl's  strength  failing  her  too  perceptibly.  During 
this  time,  Alfred's  coat  had  been  repaired,  a  pair  of  panta- 


214  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

loons  and  a  vest  bought  for  him,  and  also  a  second-hand 
hat  of  very  respectable  appearance — all  ready  so  soon  as 
he  should  be  strong  enough  to  venture  out.  How  anxi 
ously,  and  yet  in  fear  and  trembling,  did  the  sisters  look 
forward  to  that  period,  which  was  to  strengthen  their 
feeble  hopes,  or  scatter  them  to  the  winds  ! 

"  I  do  really  feel  very  ill,"  Anna  said,  sinking  back  upon 
her  pillow,  after  making  an  attempt  to  rise,  one  morning 
some  four  or  five  days  after  that  on  which  Mary  has  been 
represented  as  endeavouring  to  get  an  advance  from 
Mrs. . 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  Mary  inquired  kindly. 

"My  head  aches  most  violently  —  and  grows  confused 
so  soon  as  I  attempt  to  rise." 

"  Then  I  would  lie  still,  Anna." 

"  No,  I  must  be  up,  and  getting  ready  to  go  to  the 
store." 

"  I  wouldn't  go  down  to  the  store,  if  I  were  you,  Anna. 
You  had  better  rest  for  a  day." 

"  I  cannot  afford  to  lose  a  day,"  Anna  said,  again  rising 
in  bed,  and  sitting  upright,  until  the  swimming  in  her 
head,  that  commenced  upon  the  least  motion,  had  subsided. 
Then  she  got  out  upon  the  floor,  and  stood  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  while  her  head  seemed  reeling,  and  she  every 
instant  about  to  sink  down.  In  a  little  while  this  dizzi 
ness  went  off,  but  her  head  throbbed  and  ached  with 
aggravated  violence. 

At  breakfast,  she  forced  herself  to  swallow  a  small 
portion  of  food,  although  her  stomach  loathed  it ;  and 
then,  with  trembling  limbs  and  a  feeling  of  faintness,  she 
•went  out  into  the  open  air,  and  took  her  way  to  the  store. 
The  fresh  breeze,  as  it  fell  coolingly  on  her  fevered  fore 
head,  revived  her  in  a  degree ;  but  long  ere  she  had 
reached  the  store  her  limbs  were  sinking  under  her  with 
excessive  fatigue. 

"Late  again,  miss — "  said  her  employer,  as  she  came 
in,  with  a  look  of  stern  reproof. 

"I  have  not  been  very  well,  sir,"  Anna  replied,  lifting 
her  pale,  languid  face,  and  looking  appealingly  into  the 
countenance  of  the  store-keeper. 

"  Then  you  should  stay  at  home  altogether,  Miss,"  was 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  215 

his  cold  response,  as  he  turned  away,  leaving  her  to  pro 
ceed  to  her  accustomed  station  at  the  counter. 

The  day  happening  to  be  one  of  unusual  activity  in 
business,  Anna  was  kept  so  constantly  busy,  that  she  could 
not  find  a  moment  in  which  to  relieve  the  fatigue  she  felt 
by  even  leaning  on  the  counter.  Customer  after  customer 
came  and  went,  and  box  after  box  was  taken  from,  and 
replaced  again  upon  the  shelves,  in  what  seemed  to  her 
an  endless  round.  Sometimes  her  head  ached  so  violent 
ly,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  she  could  see  to  attend  cor 
rectly  to  her  business.  And  sometimes  she  was  compel 
led  to  steady  herself  by  holding  to  the  counter  to  prevent 
sinking  to  the  floor,  from  a  feeling  of  faintness,  suddenly 
passing  over  her.  Thus  she  held  bravely  on,  under  the 
feeble  hope  that  her  indisposition,  as  she  tried  mentally  to 
term  it,  would  wear  off. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  that  the  fever 
which  had  been  very  high  all  through  the  day,  began  to 
subside.  This  symptom  she  noticed  with  an  emotion  of 
pleasure,  as  indicating  a  heallhy  reaction  in  her  system. 

It  was  but  half  an  hour  after,  that  she  sunk,  fainting,  to 
the  floor,  at  her  place  beside  the  counter.  When  the 
fever  abated,  exhausted  nature  gave  way. 

For  nearly  an  hour  she  remained  insensible.  And  it 
was  nearly  two  hours  before  she  had  so  far  recovered  as 
to  be  able  to  walk,  when  she  was  suffered  to  go  away 
unattended.  It  was  seven  o'clock,  when,  with  a  face 
almost  as  white  as  ashes,  and  nearly  sinking  to  the 
ground  with  weakness,  she  arrived  at  home,  and  opening 
the  door,  slowly  entered. 

"  O,  Anna !  What  ails  you  ?"  exclaimed  her  mother. 

"  I  feel  very  sick,"  the  poor  girl  replied,  sinking  into  a 
chair.  "  But  where  is  Alfred  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  quicker 
tone,  in  which  was  a  strong  expression  of  anxiety,  as  she 
glanced  her  eye  about  the  room,  in  a  vain  search  for  him. 

"  He  has  walked  out,"  Mary  said. 

"  Has  he !"  ejaculated  Anna.  "  How  long  has  he  been 
away  ?" 

"  It  is  now  nearly  four  hours," — Mary  said,  endeavour 
ing  to  conceal  the  distress  she  felt,  in  pity  for  her  sister, 
who  was  evidently  quite  ill. 

"  Four  hours !"  exclaimed  Anna,  her  face  blanching  to 


V  ** 

216  THE     RUINED     FAMILY, 

a  still  whiter  hue.  "  Four  hours  !  And  do  you  not  know 
where  he  is  ?" 

"Indeed  we  do  not,  Anna.  He  went  out  to- take  a 
short  walk,  and  said  he  would  not  be  gone  more  than  ten 
or  twenty  minutes." 

Anna  did  not  reply,  but  turned  slowly  away,  and  enter 
ing  her  chamber,  threw  herself  exhausted  upon  her  bed, 
feeling  so  utterly  wretched,  that  she  breathed  an  audible 
wish  that  she  might  die.  In  about  ten  minutes  a  carriage 
stopped  at  the  door ;  and  in  a  moment  after,  amid  the 
rattling  of  departing  wheels,  Alfred  entered,  looking  bet 
ter  and  happier  than  he  had  looked  for  a  long,  long  time. 
A  single  glance  told  the  mother  and  sister  that  all  was 
right. 

"  O,  brother !  How  could  you  stay  away  so  long  ?" 
Mary  said,  springing  to  his  side,  and  grasping  tightly  his 
arm. 

"  I  did  not  expect,  when  I  walked  out,  that  it  would  be 
so  long  before  I  returned,  Mary,"  he  replied,  kissing  her 
cheek  affectionately.  "But  I  met  with  an  old,  though 
long  estranged  friend,  who  seeing  that  I  had  been  ill,  and 
needed  fresh  air,  insisted  on  taking  me  out  into  the  coun 
try  in  his  carriage.  I  could  but  consent.  I  was,  how 
ever,  so  weak,  as  to  be  obliged  to  go  to  bed,  when  about 
three  miles  from  the  city,  and  lie  there  for  a  couple  of 
hours.  But  I  feel  well,  very  well  now ;  and  have  some 
good  news  to  tell  you.  But  where  is  Anna?" 

"  She  has  just  come  in,  and  gone  up  to  her  chamber.  I 
do  not  think  her  at  all  well  to-night,"  Mary  said. 

"  Poor  girl !  She  is  sacrificing  herself  for  the  good  of 
others,"  Alfred  remarked,  with  tenderness  and  interest. 

"  Shall  I  call  her  down  ?"  Mary  asked. 

"  O,  yes, — by  all  means." 

Mary  went  up  and  found  her  sister  lying  across  the 
bed,  with  her  face  buried  in  a  pillow. 

"Anna!  Anna!"  she  said,  taking  hold  of  her  and 
shaking  her  gently. 

Anna  immediately  arose,  and  looking  wildly  around  her, 
muttered  something  that  her  sister  could  not  comprehend. 

"  Anna,  brother's  come  home." 

But  she  did  not  seem  to  comprehend  her  meaning. 

The  glaring  brightness  of  Anna's  eyes,  and  her  flushed 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  217 

cheeks,  convinced  Mary  that  all  was  not  right.  Stepping 
to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  she  called  to  Alfred,  who  instant 
ly  came  up. 

"  Here  is  Alfred,  Anna,"  she  said,  as  she  re-entered  the 
chamber,  accompanied  by  her  brother. 

For  a  moment  or  two,  Anna  looked  upon  him  with  a 
vacant  stare,  and  then  closing  her  eyes,  sunk  back  upon 
the  bed,  murmuring — 

"  It  is  all  over — all  over." 

"  What  is  all  over,  Anna  ?"   her  sister  asked. 

"  What  is  all  over  ?"  the  sick  girl  responded,  in  a  sharp, 
quick  tone,  rising  suddenly,  and  staring  at  Mary  with  a 
fixed  look.  "  Why,  it 's  all  over  with  him !  Havn't  I 
drained  my  heart's  blood  for  him  ?  Havn't  I  stood  all  day 
at  the  counter  for  his  sake,  when  I  felt  that  I  was  dying  ? 
But  it 's  all  over  now !  He  is  lost,  and  I  shall  soon  be  out 
of  this  troublesome  world  !" 

And  then  the  poor  half-conscious  girl,  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"  Don't  do  so,  dear  sister !"  Alfred  said,  pressing  up  to 
the  bedside,  and  drawing  his  arm  around  her.  "Don't 
give  way  so !  You  won't  have  to  stand  at  the  counter 
any  longer.  I  am  Alfred — your  brother — your  long  lost, 
but  restored  brother,  who  will  care  for  you  and  work  for 
you  as  you  have  so  long  cared  for  and  worked  for  him. 
Take  courage,  dear  sister !  There  are  better  and  happier 
days  for  you.  Do  not  give  up  now,  at  the  very  moment 
when  relief  is  at  hand." 

Anna  looked  her  brother  in  the  face  for  a  few  moments, 
steadily,  as  her  bewildered  senses  gradually  returned,  and 
she  began  to  comprehend  truly  what  he  said,  and  that  it 
was  indeed  her  brother  who  stood  thus  before  her,  and 
thus  appealed  to  her  with  affectionate  earnestness. 

"  O,  Alfred,"  the  almost  heart-broken  creature,  said — 
as  she  bent  forward,  and  leaned  her  head  upon  his  bosom — 
"  Heaven  be  praised,  if  you  are  really  and  truly  in  earn 
est  in  what  you  say!" 

"  I  am  most  solemnly  in  earnest,  dear  sister !"  the  young 
man  said,  with  fervency  and  emphasis.  "  Since  I  saw 
you  this  morning,  I  have  signed  my  name  to  the  total 
abstinence  pledge,  and  I  will  die  before  that  pledge  shall 
be  broken  !  And  that  is  not  all.  I  met  Charles  Williams 


218  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

immediately  after  that  act,  and  have  had  a  long  interview 
with  him.  He  confessed  to  me  that  he  had  often  felt  that 
he  was  much  to  blame  for  having  first  introduced  me  into 
dissipated  company,  and  that  he  now  desired  to  aid  me 
in  reforming  and  assisting  my  mother  and  sisters,  if  1 
would  only  try  and  abandon  my  past  evil  courses.  I  re 
sponded  most  gladly  to  his  generous  interest,  and  he  then 
told  me,  that  if  I  would  enter  his  and  his  father's  store  as 
a  clerk,  he  would  make  my  salary  at  once  a  thousand 
dollars  per  annum.  Of  course  I  assented  to  the  arrange 
ment  with  thankfulness.  Dear  mother !  Dear  sisters ! 
There  is  yet,  I  trust,  a  brighter  day  in  store  for  you." 

"  May  our  Heavenly  Father  cause  these  good  resolu 
tions  to  abide  for  ever,  my  son !"  Mrs.  Graham,  who  had 
followed  her  children  up  stairs,  said,  with  tearful  earnest 
ness. 

"  He  will  cause  them  to  abide,  mother,  I  know  that  he 
will,"  Alfred  replied. 

Just  at  that  moment  some  one  entered  below — imme 
diately  after  quick  feet  ascended  the  stairs,  and  Ellen 
bounded  into  the  room. 

"  O,  I  have  such  good  news  to  tell !"  she  exclaimed, 
panting  for  breath  as  she  entered.  "My  husband  has 
joined  the  reformers !  I  felt  so  glad  that  I  had  to  run  over 
and  let  you  know.  O,  aint  it  good  news,  indeed  !"  And 
the  poor  creature  clapped  her  hands  together  in  an  ecstacy 
of  delight. 

"  It  is  truly  good  news,  my  child,"  Mrs.  Graham  said, 
as  she  drew  her  arm  about  the  neck  of  Ellen.  "  And  we 
too  have  glad  tidings.  Alfred  has  joined  them  also,  and 
has  got  a  situation  at  a  thousand  dollars  a  year." 

Ellen,  who  had  always  loved  her  brother,  tenderly, 
notwithstanding  his  vile  habit  of  life,  turned  quickly 
towards  him,  and  flinging  her  arms  about  his  neck,  said 
while  the  tears  gushed  from  her  eyes, 

"Dear  brother!  I  have  never  wholly  despaired  of  this 
hour.  Truly,  my  cup  of  joy  is  full  and  running  over !" 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  on  the  next  day,  as  Mary 
and  her  mother  sat  conversing  by  the  side  of  the  bed  upon 
which  lay  Anna,  now  too  ill  to  sit  up,  that  a  knock  was 
heard  below.  Mrs.  Graham  went  down  and  opened  the 
door,  when  an  elegantly  dressed  lady  entered,  calling  her 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  219 

by  name  as  she  did  so,  at  the  same  time  asking  for  Anna 
and  Mary. 

She  was  shown  up  stairs  by  the  mother,  who  did  not 
recognise  her,  although  both  voice  and  face  seemed 
familiar.  On  entering  the  chamber,  Mary  turned  to  her 
and  exclaimed — 

"  Mary  Williams  !  Is  it  possible  !" 

"  And  Mary  Graham,  is  it  indeed  possible  that  I  see 
you  thus  !" — (kissing  her)  "  And  Anna — is  that  pale,  worn 
face,  the  face  of  my  old  friend  and  companion,  Anna 
Graham'?"  And  she  bent  down  over  the  bed  and  kissed 
the  lips  and  cheek  of  the  sick  girl,  tenderly,  while  her 
eyes  grew  dim  with  tears.  "How  changed  in  a  few  short 
years !"  she  added,  as  she  took  a  proffered  chair.  "Who 
could  have  dreamed,  seven  years  ago,  that  we  should 
ever  meet  thus!" 

In  a  short  time,  as  the  first  shock  and  surprise  of  meet 
ing  passed  off,  Mary  Williams,  or  rather  Mrs.  Harwood, 
entered  into  a  serious  conversation  with  Mrs.  Graham, 
and  her  daughters,  in. reference  to  the  past,  the  present, 
and  the  future.  After  learning  all  that  she  could  of  their 
history  since  their  father's  failure,  which  was  detailed 
without  disguise  by  Mary  —  Anna  was  too  feeble  to  con 
verse  • — Mrs.  Harwood  turned  to  Mary  and  asked  sud 
denly — 

"  Do  you  know  this  cape,  Mary  ?"  alluding  to  one  she 
had  on. 

"  O,  yes — very  well." 

"  You  worked  it,  did  you  not  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  For  what  price  1" 

"  Two  dollars." 

f(  Is  it  possible !  I  bought  it  of  Mrs. for  French, 

and  paid  her  for  it  fifteen  dollars." 

"  Fifteen  dollars  !"  ejaculated  Mary, in  surprise.  "  How 
shamefully  that  woman  has  imposed  upon  me !  During 
the  last  two  years,  I  have  worked  at  least  one  hundred 
capes  for  her,  each  of  which  brought  me  in  only  two 
dollars.  No  doubt  she  has  regularly  sold  them  for  French 
goods,  at  from  ten  to  fifteen  dollars  apiece." 

"  No  doubt  of  it.  I,  myself,  have  bought  several  from 
her  during  that  time  at  high  prices,  all  of  which  may 
27 


220  THE     RUINED     FAMILY. 

have  been  worked  by  you.  I  saw  you  in  her  store  a  few 
days  ago,  but  did  not  recognise  you,  although  your  ap 
pearance,  as  it  did  several  times  there  before,  attracted 
my  attention.  I  had  my  suspicions,  after  I  had  learned 

from  Mrs. who  you  were,  that  you  had  wrought 

this  cape,  and  from  having  overheard  you  ask  her  for  an 
advance  of  six  dollars,  as  the  price  of  three  capes,  was 
pretty  well  satisfied  that  two  dollars  was  all  you  received 
for  it.  I  at  once  determined  to  seek  you  out,  and  try  to 
aid  you  in  your  severe  struggle  with  the  world.  It  was 
only  last  evening  that  I  learned  from  my  brother  where 
you  lived  —  and  I  also  learned,  what  rejoiced  my  heart, 
that  there  was  about  occurring  a  favourable  change  in 
your  circumstances.  If,  however,  your  health  should 
permit,  and  your  inclination  prompt  you  to  do  so,  I  will 
take  care  that  you  get  a  much  better  price  for  any  capes 
that  you  may  hereafter  work.  They  are  richly  worth 
ten  and  twelve  dollars  apiece,  and  at  that  price,  I  have  no 
doubt  but  that  I  can  get  sales  for  many." 

"Bless  you,  Mary!  Bless  you!"  Anna  said,  smiling 
through  gushing  tears,  as  she  rose  up  in  the  bed,  and  bent 
over  towards  her  old  friend  and  companion.  '•  Your  words 
have  fallen  upon  my  heart  like  a  healing  balsam  !" 

Mrs.  Harwood  came  forward,  and  received  the  head  of 
Anna  upon  her  bosom,  while  she  drew  an  arm  round  her 
waist,  and  bent  down  and  pressed  her  with  tenderness 
and  affection. 

A  better  day  had  truly  dawned  upon  this  ruined  and 
deeply  afflicted  family.  Mrs.  Harwood  and  her  brother 
continued  to  be  their  steady  friends.  For  a  year  Alfred 
remained  in  his  new  situation  as  an  efficient  clerk,  and  at 
the  end  of  that  time  had  his  salary  advanced.  During 
that  period,  Mary,  and  Anna,  whose  health  had  become 
measurably  restored,  employed  all  their  spare  time  in 
embroidery,  which,  at  the  excellent  prices  which,  through 
the  aid  of  Mrs.  Harwood,  they  were  enabled  to  get  for 
their  really  beautiful  work,  brought  in  a  handsome  addi 
tion  to  their  brother's  earnings,  and  this  enabled  them  to 
live  in  independence,  comfort  and  respectability.  As  for 
Ellen,  her  husband  had  become  truly  a  reformed  man, 
and  provided  for  her  comfortably. 


THE     RUINED     FAMILY.  221 

It  is  now  nearly  two  years  since  this  happy  change 
took  place,  and  there  is  every  appearance  that  another 
and  a  still  happier  one  is  about  to  occur  in  reference  to 
Anna.  Charles  Williams  is  seen  very  often,  of  late, 
riding  out  with  her  and  attending  her  to  public  places. 
The  reader  can  easily  guess  the  probable  result.  If  there 
is  not  a  wedding-party  soon,  then  appearances,  in  this 
case  at  least,  are  very  deceptive. 


THE 


RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM, 


"  How  much  have  you  taken  in  to-day,  Sandy  ?"  asked 
a  modern  rum-seller  of  his  bar-tender,  after  the  doors  and 
windows  of  his  attractive  establishment  were  closed  for 
the  night. 

"  Only  about  a  dollar,  Mr.  Graves.  I  never  saw  such 
dull  times  in  my  life." 

"  Only  about  a  dollar !  Too  bad !  too  bad !  I  shall  be 
ruined  at  this  rate." 

"  I  really  don't  know  what  ails  the  people  now.  But 
'spose  it 's  these  blamenation  temperance  folks  that 's  doin' 
all  the  mischief." 

"  We  must  get  up  something  new,  Sandy ; — something 
to  draw  attention  to  our  house." 

"  So  I  've  been  a  thinkin'.  Can't  we  get  George  Wash 
ington  Dixon  to  walk  a  plank  for  us  ?  That  would  draw 
crowds,  you  know;  and  then  every  feller  a'most  that  we 
got  in  here  would  take  a  drink." 

"We  can't  get  him,  Sandy.     He's  secured  over  at 

the .     But,  any  how,  the  people  are  getting  up  to  that 

kind  of  humbuggery ;  and  I  'm  a/raid,  that,  like  the  In 
dian's  gun,  it  would  cost  in  the  end  more  than  it  came  to." 

"  Couldn't  we  get  a  maremaid  ?' 

"  A  mermaid  1" 

"  Yes,  a  maremaid.  You  know  they  had  one  in  town 
t'other  day.  It  would  be  a  prime  move,  if  we  could  only 
do  it.  We  might  fix  her  up  here,  just  back  of  where  I 
stand,  so  that  every  feller  who  called  to  see  it  would  have 
to  come  up  to  the  bar,  front-face.  There  'd  be  no  back 
ing  out  then,  you  know,  without  ponying  up  for  a  drink. 
No  one  would  be  mean  enough,  after  seeing  a  real  mare 
maid  for  nothing,  to  go  away  without  shelling  out  a  fip 
for  a  glass  of  liquor." 

"  Nonsense,  Sandy !  Where  are  we  to  get  a  mermaid  ?" 
"  Where  did  they  get  that  one  from  1" 
222 


RUM-SELLER'S   DREAM.  223 

"  That  was  brought  from  Japan ;  and  was  a  monkey's 
head  and  body  sewed  on  to  a  fish's  tail, — so  they  say."  * 

"  Well,  can't  we  send  to  Japan  as  well  as  any  one  ? 
And  as  to  its  being  a  monkey's  head  on  a  fish's  tail,  that's 
no  concern.  It  would  only  make  a  better  gull-trap." 

"  And  wait  some  two  years  before  it  arrived  ?  Humph ! 
If  that 's  the  only  thing  that  will  save  me,  I  shall  go  to  the 
dogs  in  spite  of  the " 

"  Don't  swear,  Mr.  Graves.  It 's  a  bad  habit,  though  I 
am  guilty  of  it  myself," — the  bar-tender  said,  with  vulgar 
familiarity.  "  But,  why  need  we  wait  two  years  for  a 
maremaid  ?" 

'  Did  you  ever  study  geography,  Sandy  ?" 

'Jografy?" 

« Yes." 

'What's  that?" 

« Why,  the  maps,  at  school." 

'  I  warn't  never  to  school." 

"  Then  you  don't  know  how  far  Japan  is  from  here  ?'* 

"  Not  exactly.  But  'spose  it 's  some  twenty  or  thirty 
miles." 

"  Twenty  or  thirty  miles !  It 's  t'other  side  of  the 
world !" 

"O,  dear!  Then  we  can't  get  a  maremaid,  after  all. 
But  'spose  we  try  and  get  a  live  snake." 

"  That  won't  do." 

"Why  riot?" 

"  A  live  snake  is  no  great  curiosity." 

"  Yes,  but  you  know  we  could  call  it  some  outlandish 
name;  or  say  that  it  was  dug  up  fifty  feet  below  the 
ground,  out  of  a  solid  rock,  and  was  now  all  alive  and 
doin'  well." 

"  It  wouldn't  do,  Sandy." 

"  Now  I  think  it  would,  prime." 

"  It  might  if  these  temperance  folks  were  not  so  con 
founded  thick  about  here,  interfering  with  a  man  and  pre 
venting  him  making  an  honest  living.  If  it  wasn't  for 
them,  I  should  be  clearing  five  or  ten  dollars  a  day,  as 
easy  as  nothing." 

"  Confound  them  !  I  say,"  was  Sandy's  hearty  response, 
while  he  clenched  his  fist,  and  ground  his  teeth  together. 
"  If  I  had  a  rope  round  the  necks  of  every  mother's  son 


224  RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM. 

of  'em,  wouldn't  I  serve  'em  as  old  Julus  Cesar  did  the 
Hottentots  ?  Wouldn't  I  though !  But  what  could  they  say 
or  do  about  it,  Mr.  Graves." 

"  They  'd  pretty  quick  put  it  on  to  us  in  their  temper 
ance  papers  about  the  good  device  we  had.  They  'd  talk 
pretty  fast  about  the  serpent  that  seduced  Eve,  and  all 
that. '  No,  blast  'em !  A  snake  won't  do,  Sandy." 

"  How  will  a  monkey  do  ?" 

"  A  monkey  might  answer,  if  he  was  a  little  cuter  than 
common.  But  we  can't  get  one  handy." 

"  Try  a  band  of  music." 

"  That  would  soon  wear  out ;  and  then  we  should  have 
to  get  up  something  else,  and  the  people  would  suspect  us 
of  trying  to  gull  them." 

"  Then  what  is  to  be  done,  Mr.  Graves  ?  We  can  never 
stand  it  at  this  rate." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know."  And  the  rum-seller  leaned 
upon  his  bar,  and  looked  quite  sad  and  dejected. 

"  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  Bill  Riley  ?"  he  at 
length  asked,  rising  up  with  a  sigh.  "He  hasn't  been 
here  for  a  week." 

"  Dick  Hilton  told  me  to-day  that  he  believed  he  had 
joined  the  teetotallers." 

"  I  feared  as  much.  He  was  one  of  my  very  best  cus 
tomers  ;  worth  a  clear  dollar  and  a  half  a  week  to  me, 
above  the  cost  of  the  liquors,  the  year  round.  And  Tom 
Jones  ?  Where  can  he  be  ?" 

"  Gone,  too." 

"  Tom  Jones  ?"  in  surprise. 

"  It 's  a  fact.  They  got  him  on  the  same  night  Bill 
Riley  was  caught." 

"  Foolish  fellow,  to  go  and  throw  himself  away  in  that 
style !  Them  temperance  men  will  get  from  him  every 
dollar  he  can  earn,  to  build  Temperance  Halls,  and  get 
up  processions,  and  buy  clothes  for  lazy,  loafing  vaga 
bonds,  that  had  a  great  sight  better  be  sent  to  the  poor- 
house.  It  is  too  bad.  My  very  blood  boils  when  I  think 
what  fools  men  are." 

"  And  there 's  Harry  Peters,— Dick  Hilton  told  me  that 
he  'd  gone,  too." 

"  Not  Harry  Peters,  surely !" 

"  Yes.   He  hasn't  been  near  our  house  for  several  days. 


DREAM.  225 

"  Well,  something  must  be  done  to  get  up  a  new  set  of 
customers,  or  we  are  gone.  We  must  invent  some  new 
drink." 

"What  shall  it  be?" 

"O,  that's  no  consequence.  The  name  must  be 
taking." 

"  Have  you  thought  of  one  ?" 

"No.     Can't  you  think  of  something?" 

"  Well — Let  me  see.  But  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what 
would  do." 

"What  do  you  think  of  'Bank  Stock?'  That  would 
attract  attention." 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  like  it." 

"  Or  '  Greasers  ?'  " 

"  Most  too  vulgar." 

"So  I  think  myself.     Suppose  we  call  it  a  '  Mummy  ?' " 

"I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  go.  It  ought  to  have  'Im 
perial,'  or  '  Nectar,'  or  something  like  that  about  it." 

"  O,  yes,  I  see  your  notion.     But  they  've  all  been  used 
up  long  ago.     It  must  be  some  entirely  new  name,  which, 
at  the  same  time,  will  hit  a  popular  idea.     As  '  Tariff,'  or 
Compromise.' " 

"  I  see  now.    Well,  can't  you  hammer  out  something  ?" 

"  I  must  try.  Let  me  see.  How  will  '  Sub-Treasury' 
do?" 

"  Capital !    '  Graves'   Sub-Treasury*   will   be  just   the 
thing.      You   see,  the  young-fellows    will    say  —  'Why, 
what  kind  of  a  new  drink  is  this  they  've  been  getting  up, 
down  at  the  Harmony  House  ?' 
' '  I  don't  know — What  is  it?' 
' '  The  Sub-Treasury,  they  call  it. 
' '  Have  you  tried  it  yet  ?' 
<  'No.' 

"Well,  come,  let's  give  him  a  call.  Novelty,  you 
know,  is  the  order  of  the  day.' 

"  That 's  the  way  these  matters  work,  Mr.  Graves.  But 
how  are  you  going  to  make  it?" 

"  I  've  not  thought  of  that.  But  anything  will  do. 
Liquor  tastes  good  to  'em  any  way  you  choose  to 
fix  it.' 

"  True  enough.  You  can  leave  that  paft  to  me.  I  '11 
hatch  up  something  that  will  tickle  as  it  goes  down,  and 


226  RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM. 

make  'em  wish  their  throats  were  a  miie  long,  that  they 
might  taste  it  all  the  way." 

"  Have  you  tried  Graves'  new  drink  yet,  Joe  ?"  asked 
one  young  man  of  another,  a  day  or  two  after  the  con 
versation  just  noted  took  place. 

«No.— What  is  it?" 

"  Sub-Treasury." 

"  Sub-Treasury  ?  That  must  be  something  new.  1 
wonder  what  it  is  ?" 

"  I  've  just  been  wondering  the  same  thing.  Suppose 
we  go  down  and  try  it." 

"  I  was  about  swearing  off  from  ever  tasting  another 
drop  of  liquor.  But,  I  believe  I  will  try  a  '  Sub-Trea 
sury'  with  you,  just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing." 

"  Well,  come  along  then." 

And  so  the  two  started  off  for  the  Harmony  House. 

"  Give  us  a  couple  of  Sub-Treasuries,"  said  one  of 
them  as  they  entered ;  and  forthwith  a  couple  of  glasses 
filled  with  mixed  liquors,  crushed  ice,  lemonpeel,  and 
snow-white  sugar,  were  prepared,  and  a  ^straw  placed  in 
each,  through  which  the  young  men  "  imbibed"  the  new 
compound. 

"  Really,  this  is  fine,  Nelson !"  said  the  one,  called  Joe, 
smacking  his  lips. 

"  It  is,  indeed.  You  '11  make  your  fortune  out  of  this, 
Graves." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  the  pleased  liquor-seller  responded, 
with  a  broad  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"I've  not  the  least  doubt  of  it,"  Joe,  or  Joseph  Ban 
croft,  said, — "  I  had  half  resolved  to  join  the  temperance 
society  this  day.  But  your  '  Sub-Treasury'  has  shaken 
my  resolution.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  do  it  now  in  this 
world,  nor  in  the  next,  either,  if  I  can  only  get  you  in  the 
same  place  with  me  to  make 'Sub-Treasury!'' Ha!  ha! 
ha!" 

"  A  Sub-Treasury,"  said  another  young  man,  coming 
up  to  the  bar. 

"Here,  landlord,  let  us  have  one  of  your  —  what  do 
you  call  'em  ?  O,  Sub-Treasuries !"  was  the  request  of 
another. 

"  Hallo,  Sandy!  What  new-fangled  stuff  is  this  you've 
got?"  broke  in  a  half-drunken  creature,  staggering  up,  and 


RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM.  227 

holding  on  to  the  bar-railing.    "  Let  us  have   one,  will 
you?" 

Both  Sandy  and  Graves  were  now  kept  as  busy  as  they 
could  be,  mixing  liquors  and  serving  customers.  The 
advertisement  which  had  been  inserted  in  two  or  three  of 
the  morning  papers,  in  the  following  words,  had  answered 
fully  the  rum-sellers'  expectations. 

"Drop  in  at  the  HARMONY  HOUSE,  and  try  a 
'  Sub-Treasury.'  *  What  is  a  Sub-Treasury  ?'  you  ask. 
Come  and  see  for  yourself,  and  taste  for  yourself.  Old 
Graves'  word  for  it,  you  '11  never  want  anything  else  to 
wet  your  whistle  with,  as  long  as  you  live." 

All  through  the  forenoon  the  run  was  kept  up  steadily, 
dozens  of  new  faces  appearing  at  the  bar,  and  cheering 
the  heart  of  the  tavern-keeper  with  the  prospect  of  a  fresh 
set  of  customers.  About  two  o'clock,  succeeded  a  pause. 

"That  works  admirably,  —  don't  it,  Sandy?"  said  Mr. 
Graves,  as  soon  as  the  bar-room  was  perfectly  clear,  for 
the  first  time,  since  morning. 

"  Indeed,  it  does.  They  havn't  given  me  time  to  blow. 
But  aint  some  folks  easily  gulled?" 

"  Easily  enough,  Sandy.  This  Sub-Treasury  they  think 
something  wonderful.  But  it's  only  rum  after  all,  by 
another  name,  and  in  a  little  different  form.  A  '  cobbler,' 
or  a  'julep'  has  lost  its  attractions;  but  get  up  some  new 
name  for  an  old  compound,  and  you  go  all  before  the 
wind  again." 

"  I  think  we  might  tempt  some  of  the  new  converts  to 
temperance  with  this.  Bill  Riley,  for  instance." 

"  No  doubt.  I  '11  see  if  I  can't  come  across  Bill ;  he  is 
too  good  a  customer  to  lose." 

And  so  saying,  Mr.  Graves  retired  from  the  bar-room, 
to  get  his  dinner,  feeling  better  satisfied  with  himself  than 
he  had  been  for  a  long  time.  After  eating  heartily,  and 
drinking  freely,  he  went  into  his  handsomely  furnished 
parlour,  and  reclined  himself  upon  a  sofa,  thinking  still, 
and  with  a  pleasurable  emotion  that  warmed  his  bosom, 
of  the  success  of  his  expedient  to  draw  custom.  He  had 
been  lying  down,  it  seemed  to  him,  but  a  few  moments, 
when  a  tap  at  the  door,  to  which  he  responded  with  a 
loud  "  come  in,"  was  followed  by  the  entrance  of  a  thin, 
pale,  haggard-looking  creature,  her  clothes  soiled,  and 
2S 


228  RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM. 

hanging  loosely,  and  in  tatters  about  her  attenuated  body. 
By  the  hand  she  held  a  little  girl,  from  whose  young  face 
had  faded  every  trace  of  childhood's  happy  expression. 
She,  too,  was  thin  and  pale,  and  had  a  fixed,  stony  look, 
of  hopeless  suffering.  They  came  up  to  where  he  still 
lay  upon  the  sofa,  and  stood  looking  down  upon  him  in 
silence. 

"  Who  are  you?  What  do  you  want?"  the  rum-seller 
ejaculated,  raising  himself  up  with  a  strange  feeling  about 
his  heart. 

"  The  wife  and  child  of  one  of  your  victims !  He  is 
dying,  and  wishes  to  see  you." 

"Who  is  he?  What  is  his  name?"  asked  the  tavern- 
keeper,  while  his  face  grew  pale,  and  his  lips  quivered. 

"  William  Riley,"  was  the  mournful  reply. 

"  Go  home,  woman  !  Go  home  !  I  cannot  go  with  you ! 
What  good  can  I  do  your  husband  ?" 

"  You  must  go  !  You  shall  go  !"  shrieked  the  wretched 
being,  suddenly  grasping  the  arm  of  Mr.  Graves,  with  a 
tight  grip,  while  her  hand  seemed  to  burn  his  arm,  as  if  it 
were  a  hand  of  fire. 

A  sudden  and  irresistible  impulse  to  obey  the  call  of  the 
dying  man  came  over  him,  and  as  he  arose  mechanically, 
the  mother  and  her  child  turned  towards  the  door,  and  he 
followed  after  them.  On  emerging  into  the  street,  he 
became  conscious  of  a  great  and  sudden  change  in  ex 
ternal  nature.  On  retiring  from  his  bar  an  hour  before, 
the  sun  was  shining  in  a  sky  of  spotless  beauty.  Now 
the  heavens  were  shrouded  in  dense  masses  of  black 
clouds  that  were  whirling  here  and  there  in  immense 
eddies,  or  careering  across  the  skvwas  if  driven  by  a  fierce 
and  mighty  wind.  But  below,  arMas  hushed  and  pulse 
less  as  the  grave ;  and  the  stagnant  air  felt  like  the  hot 
vapour  over  an  immense  furnace.  The  tavern-keeper 
would  have  paused  and  returned  so  soon  as  he  became 
conscious  of  this  fearful  change,  portending  the  approach 
of  a  wild  storm;  but  his  conductors  seemed  to  know  his 
thoughts;  and  turning,  each  fixed  upon  him  a  stern  and 
threatening  look,  whose  strange  power  he  could  neither 
resist  nor  understand. 

"  Come,"  said  the  mother  in  a  hollow,  husky  voice ;  and 
then  turned  and  moved  on  again,  while  the  tavern-keeper 


RUMrSELLER's     DREAM  229 

followed  impulsively.  They  had  proceeded  thus,  for  only 
a  few  paces,  when  a  fierce  light  glanced  through  half  the 
sky,  followed  by  a  deafening  crash,  under  the  concussion 
of  which  the  earth  trembled  as  if  shaken  to  its  very 
centre.  The  tavern-keeper  again  paused  in  shrinking 
irresolution,  and  again  the  woman's  emphatic, 

"  Come !"  caused  him  to  follow  his  guides  mechan 
ically. 

Soon  the  storm  burst  over  their  heads,  and  raged  with 
a  wild  fury,  such  as  he  had  never  before  witnessed.  The 
wind  howled  through  the  streets  and  alleys  of  the  city, 
with  the  roar  of  thunder ;  while  the  deep  reverberations 
following  every  broad  sheet  of  lightning  that  blazed  through 
the  whole  circle  of  the  heavens,  was  as  the  roar  of  a 
dissolving  universe.  Amid  all  this,  the  rain  fell  like  a 
deluge.  But  the  rum-seller's  guides  paused  not,  and  he 
kept  steadily  onwards  after  them,  shrinking  now  into  the 
shelter  of  the  houses,  and  now  breasting  the  fierce  storm 
with  a  momentary  desperate  resolution. 

Through  street  after  street,  lined  on  either  side  with 
wretched  tenements  that  seemed  tottering  and  just  ready 
to  fall,  and  through  alley  after  alley,  where  squalid  misery 
had  hid  itself  from  the  eye  of  general  observation,  did 
they  pass,  in  what  seemed  to  Mr.  Graves  an  interminable 
succession.  At  last  the  woman  and  her  child  paused  at 
the  door  of  an  old,  wretched-looking  frame  house,  that 
appeared  just  ready  to  sink  to  the  ground  with  decay. 

"  This  is  the  place,  sir.  Come  in !  Your  victim  would 
see  you  before  he  dies,"  the  woman  said  in  a  deep  voice 
that  made  a  chill  run  through  every  nerve,  at  the  same 
time  that  she  looked  him  sternly  and  with  an  expression 
of  malignant  triumph  in  the  face. 

Unable  to  resist  the  impulse  that  drove  him  onward, 
the  rum-seller  entered  the  house. 

"See  there,  sir!  Look!  Behold  the  work  of  your  own 
hands  !"  exclaimed  the  woman  with  startling  emphasis,  as 
he  found  himself  in  a  room,  with  a  few  old  rags  in  one 
corner  of  it  for  a  bed,  upon  which  lay,  in  the  last  sad 
agonies  of  dissolution,  his  old  customer,  Bill  Riley,  who, 
he  had  been  that  day  informed  by  his  bar-keeper,  had 
joined  the  temperance  society. 

"  There,  sir"!  See  there !"  she  continued,  grasping  his 


230  RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM. 

arm,  and  dragging  him  up  to  where  the  miserable  wretch 
lay.  "  Look  at  him  ! — Bill — Bill !"  she  continued,  stooping 
down,  while  she  still  held  tightly  the  rum-seller's  arm,  and 
shaking  the  dying  man.  "  Bill  —  Bill !  Here  he  is.  You 
said  you  wanted  to  see  him  !  Now  curse  him,  Bill !  Curse 
him  with  your  dying  breath !"  And  the  woman's  voice 
rose  to  a  wild  shriek. 

The  wretch,  thus  rudely  and  suddenly  called  back  from 
the  brink  of  death  into  a  painful  consciousness  of  exist 
ence,  half  rose  up,  and  stared  wildly  around  him  for  a 
moment  or  two. 

"  Here  he  is,  Bill !  Here  he  is !"  resumed  his  wife,  again 
shaking  him  violently. 

"Who?  Who?"  inquired  the  dying  man. 

"  Why,  the  rum-seller,  who  robbed  you  of  your  hard 
earnings,  that  he  might  roll  in  wealth  and  feast  daily  on 
luxuries,  while  your  wife  and  children  were  starving ! 
Here  he  is.  Curse  him  now,  with  your  dying  breath ! 
Curse  him,  I  say,  Bill  Riley !  Curse  him !" 

"Who?  Who?"  eagerly  asked  the  wretched  being,  a 
thrill  of  new  life  seeming  to  flash  through  his  exhausted 
frame — "Old  Graves?  Where  is  he?" 

"  Here  he  is,  Bill !  Here  he  is !  Don't  you  see  him  ?" 

"  Ah,  yes !  I  see  him  now !"  And  Riley  fixed  his  eyes, 
that  seemed,  to  the  rum-se'ler,  to  burn  and  flash  like  balls 
of  fire,  sending  off  vivid  scintillations,  upon  him  with  a 
long  and  searching  stare. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  continued,  "  this  is  old  Graves,  the  rum- 
seller,  who  has  sent  more  men  to  hell,  and  more  widows 
and  orphans  to  the  poor-house,  than  any  other  man  living. 
How  do  you  do,  sir?"  rising  up  still  more  in  his  bed,  and 
grasping  the  unwilling  hand  of  the  tavern-keeper,  which 
he  clenched  hard,  and  shook  with  superhuman  strength. 
"How  are  you,  old  fellow?  I'm  glad  to  see  you  once 
more  in  this  world.  We  shall  have  a  jolly  time  in  the 
next,  though,  shan't  we?" 

A  smile  of  malignant  triumph  flitted  for  a  moment  over 
the  livid  face  of  Riley.  Then  its  expression  brightened 
into  one  of  intelligence. 

"Look  here,  he  said,"  and  brought  his  lips  close  to  the  eat 
of  Graves.  Then  in  a  deep  whisper,  he  breathed  the  words, 

"  Sub-Treasury !" 


RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM.  231 

The  rum-seller  started,  suddenly,  and  grew  paler  than 
ever. 

Instantly  a  loud,  unearthly  laugh  rang  through  the  room, 
causing  the  blood  to  curdle  about  his  heart. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  I  thought  that  chord  could  be  touched ' 
Ha  !  ha!  That  was  a  capital  idea,  wasn't  it,  old  fellow? 
But  you  were  too  late  for  Bill  Riley.  You  thought  the 
temperance  men  had  him.  But  that  was  a  little  mis 
take." 

The  sweat  already  stood  in  large  drops  on  the  pale  face 
of  the  tavern-keeper,  and  his  limbs  trembled  like  the 
quivering  aspen. 

"  Horrible !"  he  murmured,  closing  his  eyes,  to  shut 
out  the  scene. 

"  Not  half  so  horrible  as  the  place  where  I  was,  just 
before  you  came  in,  Mr.  Graves,"  said  Riley  in  a  calmer 
voice.  "  And  where  do  you  think  that  was  ?" 

"  In  hell,  I  suppose,"  replied  the  rum-seller,  with  the 
energy  of  desperation. 

"  Exactly,"  was  the  calm  reply.  "  And  what  do  you 
think  I  heard  and  saw  there  ?  Let  me  tell  you.  I  was 
dead  for  a  little  while,  and  found  myself  in  strange 
quarters,  as  you  will  say,  when  you  get  there.  I  always 
thought  devils  had  long  tails,  and  cloven  feet,  horns,  and 
all  that  kind  of  thing.  But  that 's  a  vulgar  error.  They 
are  nothing  but  wicked  men  like  you,  who  in  this  world 
have  taken  delight  in  injuring  others.  You  will  make  a 
first-rate  devil !  Ha  !  ha  !  I  heard  'em  say  so,  and  wish 
ing  you  were  only  there  to  help  them  work  out  their  evil 
intentions. 

"  There  are  a  great  many  little  hells  there,  all  grouped 
into  one  immense  hell,  like  societies  here,  grouped  into  one 
larger  society  or  nation.  And  there,  as  here,  every  smaller 
society  is  engaged  in  doing  some  particular  thing,  and 
all  are  in  one  society  who  love  to  do  that  thing.  As  for 
instance,  all  who,  while  here,  have  taken  delight  in  theft, 
are  there  associated  together,  and  are  all  the  while  busy 
in  inventing  reasons  to  put  into  the  heads  of  thieves 
here  to  justify  them  in  stealing.  Murderers,  in  like  man 
lier  ;  and  so  rum-sellers.  They  have  a  hell  all  filled  with 
rum-sellers  there  !  I  was  let  into  it  for  a  little  while  to  see 
what  was  going  on,  and  who  do  you  think  I  saw  there 


232  RUM -SELLER'S    DREAM. 

Why,  old  Adams,  that  died  about  a  month  ago.  The  old 
fellow  was  as  lively  as  a  cricket,  and  as  busy  as  a  bee. 

" '  How  is  that  prime  old  chap,  Graves  V  he  asked  of 
me,  as  soon  as  he  found  out  I  was  there. 

"  '  I  havn't  seen  him  for  a  week,'  I  replied.  « I  have 
been  sick  for  that  time.' 

"'But  he's  a  rum  'un,  though,  ain't  he?'  chuckled 
Adams.  '  Many  a  scheme  he  and  I  have  laid  to  get 
money  out  of  the  grog-drinkers.  But  he  was  always 
ahead  of  me.  I  used,  in  my  early  days,  to  feel  a  little 
compunction  when  I  saw  a  clever  fellow  going  to  ruin. 
But  it  never  affected  him  in  the  least.  All  was  fish  that 
came  into  his  net.  I  wish  we  had  him  with  us.  We 
want  just  such  scheming  devils  as  he  to  help  us  devise 
ways  and  means  to  circumvent  these  temperance  men. 
They  '11  ruin  us,  if  we  don't  look  out.  How  were  they 
coming  on  when  you  left?' 

" '  Carrying  everything  before  them,'  I  said.  '  The 
rum-sellers  are  almost  driven  to  their  wit's  ends  for  de 
vices  to  get  customers.' 

"'Too  bad!  Too  bad!'  ejaculated  old  Adams.  'I'll 
turn  hell  upside  down,  but  what  I  '11  beat  them  out.' 

" '  You  '11  have  to  do  your  prettiest,  then,  let  me  tell 
you,  old  fellow,'  I  rejoined,  '  for  the  temperance  cause  is 
going  with  a  perfect  rush.  It  is  a  mighty  torrent  whose 
course,  neither  men  nor  devils  can  stay.  It  moves  onward 
with  a  power  and  majesty  that  astonishes  the  world, — and 
onward  it  will  move,  until  your  hell  of  rum-makers  and 
rum-sellers  will  not  be  able  to  find  a  single  point  through 
which  to  flow  into  the  world  and  tempt  men  with  your 
infernal  devices !' 

"  O,  if  you  had  heard  the  horrid  yell  of  malignancy 
which  arose,  and  echoed  through  the  black  chamber  of 
that  region  of  wickedness  and  misery,  it  would  have  made 
you  shrink  into  nothingness  with  terror.  They  fairly 
gnashed  on  me  with  their  teeth  in  impotent  rage.  At 
length  old  Adams  got  upon  a  whiskey-still  —  they  have 
such  things  in  hell — the  pattern  was  got  from  there  when 
introduced  here,  and  made  a  speech  to  his  associates. 
From  what  he  said,  I  found  that  he  had  minute  informa 
tion  of  all  that  was  going  on  in  this  region. 

"  '  Old  Graves,'  he  said  — '  our   very  best   man,  has 


DREAM.  233 

already  been  so  reduced  in  his  business  by  this  accursed 
temperance  movement,  that  he  has  recently  thought  seri 
ously  of  giving  up.  This  must  not  be.  We  cannot  lose 
him.  No  mind  receives  our  suggestions  more  readily 
than  his. — If  he  gives  up,  we  lose  a  host.  You  all  know, 
that  our  influence  on  earth  is  powerless,  unless  we  have 
men  to  carry  out  our  plans.  If  they  will  not  listen  to  our 
suggestion  —  if  they  will  not  become  our  agents,  we  can 
do  nothing  there.  As  spiritual  existences,  we  cannot 
affect  that  which  is  corporeal,  except  through  the  spiritual 
united  with  the  corporeal — that  is,  through  spiritual  bodies 
in  material  bodies.  In  other  words,  we  can  act  on  men's 
minds,  and  they  can  do  our  works  on  earth  for  us.  Now, 
seeing  that  we  can  do  nothing  to  stop  this  temperance 
movement,  except  through  the  self-love  of  the  rum-sellers 
and  rum-makers,  it  will  never  do  to  let  old  Graves  fall. 
We  must  help  him  to  some  new  scheme  by  which  to 
bring  back  his  diminished  custom.  Now  what  shall 
it  be?' 

" « Some  device  that  will  call  attention  to  his  bar-room, 
is  what  is  wanted/  remarked  one. 

" « Yes,  that  is  plain  enough,'  replied  old  Adams,  who 
seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  head  devil  there — 4  but  what  shall 
it  be  1  That 's  the  question !' 

" '  Suppose  we  put  him  up  to  getting  a  woman  to  walk 
a  plank,'  suggested  one. 

" « No.  That  has  been  tried  already ;  and  if  it  is  tried 
again  so  soon,  these  temperance  men  will  cry,  humbug!' 

" '  How  would  it  do  for  him  to  get  a  pretty  girl  behind 
his  bar.' 

" '  That  might  do.  But  then,  his  wife  is  a  sort  of 
religious  woman,  and  wouldn't  let  him  do  it.' 

"  « Couldn't  we  induce  him  to  poison  her,  and  so  get  hei 
out  of  the  way?' 

" « No  —  That 's  out  of  the  question.  He  kind  of  likes 
the  woman  too  well  for  that.' 

" '  What,  then,  do  you  suggest  ?' 

"  '  Some  new  drink  will  be  the  thing.  Something  that 
will  tickle  the  ear  at  the  same  time  that  it  tickles  the 
palate.  It  will  be  a  great  thing,  if,  in  this  matter,  we  can 
kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  Bring  back  by  some  new 


234 


RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM. 


attraction  the  wavering  ones,  and  turn  the  tide  of  custom 
in  the  direction  of  our  very  particular  friend  Mr.  Graves.' 
" '  Have  you  thought  of  a  name  for  it  V 
"'No.' 

" « How  would  Ambrosia  do  T  suggested  one. 
" '  Not  at  all,'  replied  old  Adams.     '  It  aint  the  thhg  to 
catch  gulls  now-a-days.    And   more  than  that,  it  isn't 
omething  new.' 

What  do  you  think  of  Harlequinade  ?' 
That  might  answer;  but  it's  been  used,  already.' 
Fiscal  agent  ?' 
' '  The  same  objection.' 

Mummy  ?' 
1 '  The  same.' 
« '  Cobbler  V 
'Good,  but  stale.' 
'  Greaser  ?' 
' '  No' — And  Adams  shook  his  head  emphatically. 

Sam  Weller?' 
' '  Been  used  already.' 

Veto  V 
" '  That  too.' 
" <  Hardware  V 
" '  Likewise.' 

"  « What  do  you  think  of  Elevator  ?' 
" « That  might  do ;  but  still  I  can't  exactly  say  that  I 
like  it.     It   should  be   something  to   strike  the  popular 
idea.' 

"  <  Sub-Treasury,  then  ?' 

"  '  That 's  it,  exactly !  Sub-Treasury  —  Sub-Treasury. 
Let  it  be  called  Sub-Treasury !  And  now,  as  I  have  more 
power  over  Graves  than  any  of  you,  let  me  have  the 
managing  of  him.' 

And  so  saying,  Adams  seemed  to  go  away,  and  remain, 
for  a  day  or  two.     When  he  came  back,  all  the  devils 
gathered  around  him  full  of  interest  to  hear  of  his  suc 
cess.     They  greeted  him,  first,  with  three  wild,  infernal 
cheers,  full  of  malignant  pleasure,  and  then  asked, 
" '  What  news  ?  What  news  from  earth  ?' 
"  '  Glorious  !'  was  his  response.     And  then  another  wild 
yell  of  triumph  went  up. 

"'I  found  Graves,'  he  went  on,  'just  the  same  pliant 


RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM.  235 

tool  that  he  has  ever  been.'  He  fell  into  my  suggestions 
at  once,  and  on  the  very  next  day  advertised  his  '  Sub- 
Treasury.'  It  took  like  a  charm.  I  could  tell  you  of  a 
dozen  young  fellows  just  about  being  caught  by  the  tee- 
tootallers,  who  couldn't  withstand  the  new  temptation. 
There  was  one  in  particular.  His  name  is  Joe  Bancroft. 
Only  married  about  three  years,  and  almost  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hill  already.  On  the  day  before  '  Sub-Treasury* 
was  announced,  he  came  home  sober,  for  the  first  time 
in  six  months.  His  wife,  a  beautiful  young  girl  when  he 
married  her,  but  now  a  thin,  pale,  heart-broken  creature, 
sat  near  a  window  sewing  when  he  entered.  But  she  did 
not  look  up.  She  heard  him  come  in — but  she  could  not 
turn  her  eyes  towards  him,  for  her  heart  always  grew 
sicker  whenever  she  saw  the  sad  changes  that  drink  had 
wrought  upon  him. 

"  For  a  few  moments  Joe  stood  gazing  at  his  young 
wife,  with  a  tenderer  interest  than  he  had  felt  for  a  long 
time.  He  saw  that  she  did  not  look  up,  and  was  con 
scious  of  the  reason. 

" '  Sarah,'  he  at  last  said,  in  a  voice  of  affection,  com 
ing  to  her  side. 

" « What  do  you  want  ?'  she  replied,  still  without  look 
ing  up. 

" '  Look  up  at  me,  Sarah,'  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 
slightly  trembled. 

"  Instantly  her  work  dropped  from  her  hands,  and  she 
lifted  her  eyes  to  the  face  of  her  husband,  and  murmured 
in  a  low,  sad  tone, — 

"  'What  is  it  you  wish,  Joseph  ?' 

"  *  You  look  very  pale,  and  very  sorrowful,  Sarah,'  her 
husband  said,  with  increasing  tenderness  of  tone  and 
manner. 

"  It  had  been  so  very  long  since  he  had  spoken  to  her 
kindly,  or  since  he  had  appeared  to  take  any  interest  in 
her,  that  the  first  tenderly  uttered  word  melted  down  her 
heart,  and  she  burst  into  tears,  and  leaning  her  head 
against  him,  sobbed  long  and  passionately. 

"  With  many  a  kind  word,  and  many  a  solemn  promise 
of  reformation  did  the  husband  soothe  the  stricken  heart 
of  his  wife,  into  which  a  new  hope  was  infused. 

" « I  will  be  a  changed  man,  after  this,  Sarah,'  he  said — 


236  RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM. 

'And  then  it  must  go  well  with  us.  It  seems  as  if  I  had 
been,  for  the  last  year,  the  victim  of  insanity.  I  cannot 
realize  how  it  is  possible  for  any  one  to  abandon  himself 
as  I  have  done,  to  the  neglect  of  all  the  most  sacred  ties 
and  duties  that  can  appertain  to  us.  How  deeply  —  O, 
how  deeply  you  must  have  suffered  !' 

"  '  Deeply,  indeed,  dear  husband  ! — More  than  tongue 
can  utter,'  the  young  wife  replied,  in  a  solemn  tone.  '  It 
has  seemed,  sometimes,  as  if  I  must  die.  Day  after  day, 
week  after  week,  and  month  after  month,  to  see  you  com 
ing  in  and  going  out,  as  you  have  done,  for  ever  intoxi 
cated.  To  have  no  kind  word  or  look.  No  rational 
intercourse  with  one  to  whom  I  had  yielded  up  my  heart 
so  confidingly.  O,  my  husband !  you  know  not  how  sad 
a  trial  you  have  imposed  upon  your  wife !' 

" '  Sad  —  sad,  indeed,  I  am  sure  it  has  been,  Sarah  ! 
But  let  us  try  and  forget  the  past.  There  is  bright  sun 
shine  yet  for  us,  and  it  will  soon,  I  trust,  fall  warmly  and 
cheeringly  on  our  pathway.' 

"  All  that  day  Bancroft  remained  at  home  with  his  wife, 
renewing  his  assurances  of  reformation,  and  laying  his 
plans  for  the  future.  I  saw  all  this,  and  began  to  fear 
lest  Joe  would  really  get  freed  from  the  toils  we  had, 
through  the  rum-sellers,  thrown  around  him — toils,  that  I 
had  felt,  sure  would  soon  cause  him  to  fall  headlong 
down  amongst  us.  I,  of  course,  suggested  nothing  to  him 
then ;  for  it  would  have  been  of  little  use.  Towards 
night,  his  wife  proposed  that  he  should  sign  the  pledge.  I 
was  at  his  ear  in  a  moment — 

"  '  That  would  be  too  degrading  !'  I  whispered.  '  You 
have  not  got  quite  so  low  as  that  yet.' 

" '  No,  Sarah,  I  do  not  wish  to  sign  the  pledge,'  he  at 
once  replied. 

"'Why  not,  dear? 

" '  Because,  I  have  always  despised  this  way  of  binding 
oneself  down  by  a  written  contract,  not  to  do  a  thing. 
It  is  unmanly.  My  resolution  is  sufficient.  If  1  say  that 
I  will  never  drink  another  drop,  why  I  won't.  But  if  I 
were  to  bind  myself  by  a  pledge  not  to  touch  liquor 
again,  I  should  never  feel  a  moment's  peace,  until  I  had 
broken  it.' 

"  These  objections  I  readily  infused  into  his  mind,  and 


RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM.  237 

he  at  once  adopted  them  as  his  own.  I  had  power  to  do 
so,  because  I  now  perceived  that  his  love  of  drink  was  so 
strong,  that  he  did  not  wish  to  cut  off  all  chance  of  ever 
tasting  it  again.  He,  therefore,  wanted  specious  reasons 
for  not  signing  the  pledge,  and  with  these  I  promptly 
furnished  him ! 

"It  was  in  vain  that  his  wife  urged  him,  even  with 
tears  and  eager  entreaties  to  take  the  pledge :  I  was  too 
much  for  her,  and  made  him  firm  as  a  rock  in  his  deter 
mination  not  to  sign. 

"  On  the  next  morning,  he  parted  with  his  wife,  strong 
in  his  resolution  to  be  a  reformed  man.  The  pleasant 
thrill  of  her  parting  kiss,  the  first  he  had  received  for 
more  than  a  year,  lingered  in  his  memory  and  encouraged 
him  to  abide  by  his  promise.  He  passed  his  accustomed 
places  of  resort  for  liquor,  on  his  way  to  business,  but 
without  the  first  desire  to  enter.  I  noted  all  this,  and 
kept  myself  busy  about  him  to  detect  a  moment  of  weak 
ness.  Our  friend  Graves  advertised  his  '  Sub-Treasury* 
on  that  morning.  I  calculated  largely  on  the  novelty  of 
the  idea  to  win  him  off.  But,  somehow  or  other,  he  did 
not  see  it.  Another  young  man,  one  of  his  companions, 
did,  however: — 

"  '  Have  you  tried  Graves'  new  drink,  yet  ?'  he  asked 
of  him  about  eleven  o'clock,  while  he  was  under  the 
influence  of  a  pretty  strong  thirst. 

" '  No,  what  is  it  V  he  replied,  with  a  feeling  of  lively 
interest. 

" «  Sub-Treasury,'  replied  his  friend. 

" '  Sub-Treasury  !  That  must  be  something  new !  I 
wonder  what  it  can  be  V 

"  Into  this  feeling  of  interest  in  knowing  what  the  new 
drink  could  be,  I  infused  a  strong  desire  to  taste  it. 

" '  Suppose  we  go  and  try  some,'  suggested  his  friend. 

"  *  There  '11  not  be  the  least  danger,'  I  whispered  in  his 
ear.  *  You  can  try  it,  and  refrain  from  drinking  to  ex 
cess.  The  evil  has  been  your  drinking  too  much.  There 
is  no  harm  in  moderate  drinking.  This  decided  him,  and 
I  retired.  I  knew,  if  he  tasted,  that  he  was  gone.' 

"  Down  he  went  to  the  Harmony  House ; — I  was  there 
when  he  came  in.  It  would  have  done  your  hearts  good 
to  have  seen  with  what  delight  he  sipped  the  new  bever- 


238  RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM. 

age, —  and  to  have  heard  him  say,  as  I  did,  to  Graves  — 
;  I  had  half  resolved  to  join  the  temperance  society  this 
day, —  but  your  Sub-Treasury  has  entirely  shaken  my 
resolution.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  do  it  now  in  this 
world,  nor  in  the  next  either,  if  I  can  only  get  you  in  the 
same  place  with  me  to  make  Sub-Treasury.'  And  then 
he  laughed  with  great  glee.  One,  of  course,  did  not 
satisfy  him,  nor  two,  nor  three.  Before  dinner-time  he 
was  gloriously  drunk,  and  went  staggering  home  as  usual. 
I  could  not  resist  the  inclination  to  see  a  little  of  the  fun 
when  he  presented  himself  to  his  wife,  whose  fond  hopes 
were  all  in  the  sky  again.  Like  a  bird,  she  had  sung 
about  the  house  during  the  morning,  her  heart  so  elated 
that  she  could  not  prevent  an  outward  expression  of  the 
delight  she  felt.  As  the  hour  drew  near  for  her  husband's 
return,  a  slight  fear  would  glance  through  her  mind, 
quickly  dismissed,  however ; — for  she  could  not  entertain 
the  idea  for  a  moment  that  his  newly-formed  resolution 
could  possibly  be  so  soon  broken. 

"  At  last  the  hour  for  his  accustomed  return  arrived. 
She  heard  him  open  the  door  —  and  sprung  to  meet  him. 
One  look  sufficed  to  break  her  heart.  Statue-like  she 
stood  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  sunk  senseless  to 
the  floor. 

"  Other  matters  calling  me  away,  I  staid  only  to  see 
this  delightful  little  scene,  and  then  hurried  back  to  the 
Harmony  House,  to  see  if  the  run  was  kept  up.  Custo 
mers  came  in  a  steady  stream,  and  crowded  the  bar  of 
our  worthy  friend,  whose  heart  was  as  light  as  a  feather. 
I  saw  at  least  half  a  dozen  come  in  and  sip  a  glass  of 
Sub-Treasury,  who  I  knew  had  not  tasted  liquor  for 
months.  I  marked  them;  and  shall  be  about  their  path 
occasionally.  But  the  best  thing  of  all  that  I  saw,  was  a 
reformer  break  his  pledge.  He  was,  years  ago,  a  noted 
drunkard,  but  had  been  a  reformed  man  for  four  years. 
In  that  time  he  had  broken  up  several  grog-shops,  by 
reforming  all  their  customers,  and  had  got,  I  suppose,  not 
less  than  five  or  six  hundred  persons  to  sign  the  pledge. 
J  had,  of  course,  a  particular  grudge  against  him.  It  was 
an  exceedingly  warm  day.  and  he  was  uncommonly 
thirsty.  He  was  reading  the  paper,  and  came  across  the 
'  Sub-Treasurv'  advertisement. 


DREAM.  239 

u  « Ha  !  ha !  What  is  this,  I  wonder?'  he  said,  laughing; 
some  new  trick  of  the  enemy,  I  suppose.' 

"'Look  here,  what  is  this  Sub-Treasury  stuff,  that 
Graves  advertises  this  morning?'  he  said,  to  a  young  fel 
low,  a  protege  of  mine,  who  was  more  than  a  match  for 
him. 

" '  A  kind  of  temperance  beverage.'  I  put  it  into  the 
fellow's  head  to  say. 

" '  Temperance  beverage  ?' 

" '  Yes.  It 's  made  of  lemonpeel,  and  one  stuff  or 
other,  mixed  up  with  pounded  ice.  He 's  got  a  tremen 
dous  run  for  it.  I  know  half  a  dozen  teetotallers  who 
get  it  regularly.  I  saw  three  or  four  there  to-day,  at  one 
time.' 

" '  Indeed !' 

" '  It 's  a  fact.  Come,  won't  you  go  down  and  try  a 
glass  ?  It 's  delightful.' 

"  '  Are  you  in  earnest  about  it?' 

" « Certainly  I  am.  It 's  one  of  the  most  delicious  drinks 
that  has  been  got  up  this  season.' 

"  '  I  don't  like  to  be  seen  going  into  such  a  place.' 

"  '  O,  as  to  that,  there  is  a  fine  back  entrance  leading 
in  from  another  street,  that  no  one  suspects,  and  a  private 
bar  into  the  bargain.  We  can  go  in  and  get  a  drink,  and 
nobody  will  ever  see  us.' 

" '  Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  do,'  said  the  temperance  man, 
'  for  lam  very  dry.' 

" '  You  're  a  gone  gozzling,  my  old  chap,'  I  said,  as  I 
saw  him  moving  off.  '  I  thought  I  'd  get  you  before  long.' 
Sure  enough,  the  moment  he  took  the  first  draught  his 
doom  was  sealed.  His  former  desire  for  liquor  came 
back  on  him  with  irresistible  power;  and  before  night 
fall,  he  was  so  drunk  that  he  went  staggering  along  the 
street,  to  the  chagrin  and  consternation  of  the  teetotal 
lers  ;  but  to  the  infinite  delight  of  your  humble  servant. 

"  And  so  saying,  that  malignant  fiend,  who,  while  he 
inhabited  a  material  body,  was  called  old  Billy  Adams, 
stepped  down  from  the  still.  Then  there  arose  three  loud 
and  long  cheers,  for  Graves,  and  his  '  Sub-Treasury,'  that 
echoed  and  re-echoed  wildly  through  that  gloomy  prison- 
louse. 

"  You  're  much  thought  of  down  there,  you  see,"  con- 


240  RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM. 

tinued  Riley,  with  a  cold  grin  of  irony.  —  "  Adams  says, 
that  if  this  temperance  movement  aint  stopped  soon, 
they  will  have  to  get  you  among  them,  and  make  you 
head  devil  in  that  department.  How  would  you  like  that, 
old  chap,  sa^  1  How  would  you  like  to  go  now  ?" 

As  Riley  said  this,  he  threw  himself  forward,  and 
clasped  his  thin,  bony  fingers  around  the  neck  of  the  rum- 
seller,  with  a  strong  grip. 

"  How  would  you  like  to  go  now,  ha  1"  he  screamed 
fiercely  in  his  ear,  clenching  his  hand  tighter  and  still 
tighter,  while  his  hot  breath  melted  over  the  face  of 
Graves  in  a  suffocating  vapour.  The  struggles  of  the 
rum-seller  were  vigorous  and  terrible — but  the  dying  man 
held  on  with  a  superhuman  strength.  Soon  everything 
around  grew  confused,  and  though  still  distinctly  con 
scious,  it  was  a  consciousness  in  the  mind  of  the  tavern- 
keeper  of  the  agonies  of  death.  This  became  so  terrible 
to  him  that  he  resolved  on  one  last  and  more  vigorous 
ffort  for  life.  It  was  made,  and  the  hands  of  the  dying 
man  broke  loose.  Instantly  starting  to  his  feet,  the 
wretched  dealer  in  poison  for  both  the  bodies  and  souls 
of  men,  found  himself  standing  in  the  centre  of  his  own 
parlour,  with  the  sweat  rolling  from  his  face  in  large 
drops. 

"  Merciful  Heaven !  And  is  it  indeed  a  dream  ?"  he 
ejaculated,  panting  with  terror  and  exhaustion. 

"A  dream —  and  yet  not  all  a  dream,"  he  added,  in  a 
few  moments,  in  a  sad,  low  tone.  —  "In  league  with  hell 
against  my  fellow-men  !  Can  it  indeed  be  true?  But  away! 
away  such  thoughts !" 

Such  thoughts,  however,  could  not  be  driven  away. 
They  crowded  upon  his  mind  at  every  avenue,  and  press 
ed  inward  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  idea. 

"  But  I  am  not  in  league  with  evil  spirits  to  do  harm  to 
my  fellow-men.  I  do  not  wish  evil  to  any  one,"  he 
argued. 

"  You  are  in  such  evil  consociation,"  whispered  a  voice 
within  him.  "  There  are  but  two  great  parties  in  the 
world — the  evil  and  the  good.  No  middle  ground  exists. 
You  are  with  one  of  these  —  working  for  the  good  of 
your  fellow-men,  or  for  their  injury.  One  of  these  great 
parties  acts  in  concert  with  heaven,  the  other  with  hell 


RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM.  241 

On  the  side  of  one  stand  arrayed  good  spirits  —  on  the 
side  of  the  other  evil  spirits.  Can  good  spirits  be  orr  your 
side  1  Would  they,  for  the  sake  of  gain,  take  the  food  out 
of  the  mouths  of  starving  children?  Would  they  put 
allurements  in  a  brother's  way  to  entice  him  to  ruin?  No! 
Only  in  such  deeds  can  evil  spirits  take  delight." 

"  Then  I  am  on  the  side  of  hell  ?" 

"There  are  but  two  parties.  You  cannot  be  on  the 
side  of  heaven,  and  do  evil  to  your  neighbour." 

"  Dreadful  thought !  In  league  with  infernal  spirits  to 
curse  the  human  race !  Can  it  be  possible  1  Am  I  really 
in  my  senses  ?' 

For  nearly  half  an  hour  did  Graves  pace  the  floor 
backwards  and  forwards,  his  mind  in  a  wild  fever  of  ex 
citement.  In  vain  did  he  try,  over  and  over  again,  to 
argue  the  point  against  the  clearest  and  strongest  convic 
tions  of  reason.  Look  at  it  as  he  would,  it  all  resolved 
itself  into  that  one  bold  and  startling  position,  that  he  was 
in  league  with  hell  against  his  fellow-men. 

"  And  now,  what  shall  I  do  ?"  was  the  question  that 
arose  in  his  mind. v  "  Give  up  my  establishment  ?" 

At  that  moment,  Sandy,  the  bar-tender,  opened  the  par 
lour  door,  and  said  with  a  broad  smile — 

"  The  Sub-Treasury  is  working  wonders  again !  I  'm 
overrun,  and  want  help." 

"  I  can't  come  down,  just  now,  Sandy.  I  'm  not  very 
well.  You  will  have  to  get  along  the  best  you  can," 
Graves  replied. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  then,  sir :  I  can't  make 
'em  half  as  fast  as  they  are  called  for." 

"  Let  half  of  the  people  go  away  then,"  was  the  cold 
reply.  "  I  can't  help  you  any  more  to-day." 

Sandy  thought,  as  he  withdrew,  that  the  "  old  man' 
must  have  suddenly  lost  his  senses.  He  was  confirmed 
in  this  idea  before  the  next  morning. 

It  was  past  twelve  o'clock  when  the  run  of  custom  was 
over,  and  Sandy  closed  up  for  the  night.  As  soon  as  this 
was  done,  Mr.  Graves  came  in  for  the  first  time  since 
dinner. 

"  It 's  been  a  glorious  day  for  business,"  Sandy  said, 
rubbing  his  hands.  "  I  've  taken  in  more  than  thirty 


242  RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM. 

dollars.    Lucifer  himself  must  have  put  the  idea  into  your 
head." 

"  No  doubt  he  did,"  was  the  grave  reply. 

Sandy  stared  at  this. 

"Didn't  you  tell  me  that  Bill  Riley  had  joined  the 
temperance  society  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  replied  the  bar-keeper. 

"  Are  you  sure  1" 

"  I  am  sure,  I  was  told  so  by  one  that  knew." 

"  I  only  wish  I  was  certain  of  it,"  was  the  reply,  made 
half  abstractedly.  And  then  the  dealer  leaned  down  upon 
the  bar  and  remained  in  deep  thonght  for  a  very  long 
time,  to  the  still  greater  surprise  of  Sandy,  who  could  not 
comprehend  what  had  come  over  his  employer. 

"  Aint  you  well,  Mr.  Graves,"  he  at  length  asked,  break 
ing  in  upon  the  rum-seller's  painful  reverie. 

"  Well !"  he  ejaculated,  rousing  up  with  a  start.  «'  No, 
I  am  not  well." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  sir  ? 

"I'm  sick,"  was  the  evasive  response. 

"  How,  sick  ?"  was  Sandy's  persevering  inquiry. 

"  Sick  at  heart !  O,  dear !  I  wish  I  'd  been  dead  before 
I  opened  a  grog-shop !"  —  And  the  countenance  of  Mr. 
Graves  changed  its  quiet,  sad  expression,  to  one  of  intense 
agony. 

Sandy  looked  at  the  tavern-keeper  with  an  air  of  stupid 
astonishment  for  some  moments,  unable  to  comprehend 
his  meaning.  It  was  evident  to  his  mind  that  Mr.  Graves 
had  suddenly  become  crazed  about  something.  This  idea 
produced  a  feeling  of  alarm,  and  he  was  about  retiring 
for  counsel  and  assistance,  when  the  tavern-keeper  roused 
himself  and  said: 

"  When  did  you  see  Bill  Riley,  Sandy  ?" 

"  I  saw  him  yesterday." 

"  Are  you  certain  1"  in  a  quick,  eager  tone. 

"  O  yes.     I  saw  him  going  along  on  the  other  side  of 
the  street  with  two  or  three  fellows  that  didn't  look  no 
how  at  all  like  rum-bruisers." 

"  I  was  afraid  he  was  dead,"  Mr.  Graves  responded  to 
this,  breathing  more  freely. 

"  Dead  !  Why  should  you  think  that  ?"  inquired  Sandy, 
still  more  mistified. 


RDM-SELLER'S   DREAM.  243 

"  I  had  reason  for  thinking  so,"  was  the  evasive  reply. 

A  pause  of  some  moments  ensued,  when  the  bar-keeper 
said — 

"  I  shall  have  to  be  stirring  bright  and  early  to-morrow 
morning." 

•<  Why  so  ?" 

"We're  out  of  sugar  and  lemons  both.     That  Sub- 
Treasury  runs  on  them  'ere  articles  strong." 
'    "  Confound  the  Sub-Treasury  !"  Mr.  Graves  ejaculated, 
with  a  strong  and  bitter  emphasis. 

Sandy  stood  again  mute  with  astonishment,  staring  into 
the  tavern-keeper's  face. 

"  Sandy,"  Mr.  Graves  at  length  said  in  a  calm,  resolute 
tone,  "  my  mind  is  made  up  to  quit  selling  liquor." 

"Quit  selling  liquor,  sir!"  exclaimed  Sandy,  more 
astonished  than  ever.  "Quit  selling  liquor  just  at  this 
time,  when  you  have  made  such  a  hit?" 

"  Yes,  Sandy,  I  'm  going  to  quit  it.  'I  'm  afraid  that  we 
rum-sellers  are  on  the  side  of  hell." 

"  I  never  once  supposed  that  we  were  on  the  side  of 
heaven,"  the  bar-keeper  replied,  half  smiling. 

"  Then  what  side  did  you  suppose  we  were  on  ?" 

"O,  as  to  that,  I  never  gave  the  matter  a  thought. 
Only,  it  never  once  entered  my  head  that  we  could  claim 
much  relationship  with  heaven.  Heaven  feeds  the  hungry 
and  clothes  the  naked.  But  we  take  away  both  food  and 
clothing,  and  give  only  drink.  There  is  some  little  differ 
ence  in  this,  now  one  comes  to  think  about  it." 

"  Then  I  am  right  in  my  notion." 

"  I  'm  rather  afraid  you  are,  sir.  But  that 's  a  strange 
way  of  thinking." 

"  Aint  it  the  true  way  V 

"  Perhaps  so." 

"  I  am  sure  so,  Sandy !  And  that 's  what  makes  me  say 
that  I  'm  done  selling  rum." 

The  tavern-keeper  did  not  tell  all  that  was  in  his  mind. 
He  said  nothing  of  his  dream,  nor  of  that  horrible  idea  of 
going  to  the  rum-seller's  hell,  and  becoming  a  devil,  filled 
with  the  delight  of  rendering  mankind  wretched  by 
deluging  the  land  with  drunkenness. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  then?"   asked  Sandy. 

"  Why,  the  first  thing  is  to  quit  rum-selling." 
30 


244  RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM. 

"  But  what  then  ?" 

"I'm  not  decided  yet; — but  shall  enter  into  some  kind 
of  business  that  I  can  follow  with  a  clear  conscience." 

"  You  '11  sell  out  this  stand,  I  suppose.  The  goodwill  is 
worth  three  or  four  hundred  dollars." 

"  No,  Sandy,  I  will  not !"  was  the  tavern-keeper's  posi 
tive,  half  indignant  reply.  "I'll  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  the  gain  of  rum-selling.  I  have  too  much  of  that  sin 
on  rny  conscience  already." 

"  Somebody  will  come  right  in,  as  soon  as  you  move 
out.  And  I  don't  see  why  you  should  give  any  one  such 
an  advantage  for  nothing." 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  move  out,  Sandy." 

"  Then  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"Why,  one  thing  —  I'm  going  to  shut  up  this  devil's 
man-trap.  And  while  I  can  keep  possession  of  the  pro 
perty,  it  shall  never  be  opened  as  a  dram-shop  again." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  liquors,  Mr. 
Graves?  Sell 'em?" 

"No." 

"  What  then  ?" 

"  Burn  'em.     Or  let  'em  run  in  the  gutter." 

"  That  I  should  call  a  piece  of  folly." 

"  You  may  call  it  what  you  please.  But  I  '11  do  it  not 
withstanding.  I  've  received  my  last  dollar  for  rum. 
Not  another  would  I  touch  for  all  the  world !" 

A  slight  shudder  passed  through  the  tavern-keeper's 
body,  as  he  said  this,  occasioned  by  the  vivid  recollection 
of  some  fearful  passage  in  his  late  dream. 

"  You  'd  better  give  the  liquors  to  me,  Mr.  Graves.  It 
would  be  a  downright  sin  to  throw  'em  in  the  gutter,  when 
a  fellow  might  make  a  good  living  out  of  'em." 

"  No,  Sandy.  Neither  you  nor  anybody  else  shall  ever 
make  a  man  drunk  with  the  liquor  now  in  this  house.  It 
shall  run  in  the  gutter.  That 's  settled  !" 

When  the  sun  arose  next  morning,  Harmony  House 
was  shorn  of  its  attractions  as  a' drinking  establishment. 
All  the  signs,  with  their  deceptive  and  alluring  devices, 
were  taken  down  —  the  shutters  closed,  and  everything 
indicating  its  late  use  removed,  excepting  a  strong  smell 
of  liquor,  great  quantities  of  which  had  been  poured  into 
the  gutters. 


RUM-SELLER'S    DREAM.  245 

In  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  the  house  was  again 
re-opened  as  a  hatter-shop,  Mr.  Graves  having  resumed 
his  former  honest  business,  which  he  still  follows,  well 
patronized  by  the  temperance  men,  among  whom  are 
Joseph  Randolph,  and  William  Riley,  the  former  reclaim 
ed  through  his  active  instrumentality. 


HOW  TO  CURE  A  TOPER. 


[THE  following  story,  literally  true  in  its  leading  particu 
lars,  was  told  by  a  reformed  man,  who  knew  W very 

well.  In  repeating  it,  I  do  so  in  the  first  person,  in  order 
to  give  it  more  effect.] 

I  was  enjoying  my  glass  of  flip,  one  night,  at  the  little 
okl  "  Black  Horse"  that  used  to  stand  a  mile  out  of  S. 

,  (I  hadn't  joined  the  great  army  of  teetotallers  then,) 

when  a  neighboring  farmer  came  in,  whose  moderation,  at 
least  in  whisky  toddies,  was  not  known  unto  all  men. 

His  name  was  W .     He  was  a  quiet  sort  of  a  man 

when  sober,  lively  and  chatty  under  the  effect  of  a  single 
glass,  argumentative  and  offensively  dogmatic  after  the 
second  toddy,  and  downright  insulting  and  quarrelsome 
after  getting  beyond  that  number  of  drinks.  We  liked  him 
and  disliked  him  on  these  accounts. 

On  the  occasion  referred  too,  he  passed  through  all  these 
changes,  and  finally  sunk  off  to  sleep  by  the  warm  stove. 
Being  in  the  way,  and  also  in  danger  of  tumbling  upon 
the  floor,  some  of  us  removed  him  to  an  old  settee,  where 
he  slept  soundly,  entertaining  us  with  rather  an  unmusical 
serenade.  There  were  two  or  three  mischievous  fellows 
about  the  place,  and  one  of  them  suggested  it  would  be  capi 
tal  fun  to  black  W 's  face,  and  "  make  a  darkey  of  him." 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  Some  lamp-black  and  oil  were 
mixed  together  in  an  old  tin  cup,  arid  a  coat  of  this  paint 

laid  over  the  face  of  W ,  who,  all  unconscious  of  what 

had  been  done,  slept  on  as  soundly  and  snored  as  loudly  as 
ever.  Full  two  hours  passed  away  before  he  awoke. 
Staggering  up  to  the  bar,  he  called  for  another  glass  of  whis 
ky  toddy,  while  we  made  the  old  bar-room  ring  again  with 
our  peals  of  laughter. 

"  What  are  you  all  laughing  at  ?"  he  said,  as  he  became 
aware  that  he  was  the  subject  of  merriment,  and  turning 
his  black  face  around  upon  the  company  as  he  spoke. 
246 


HOW   TO    CURE     A    TOPER.  247 

"  Give  us  Zip  Coon,  old  fellow !"  called  out  one  of  the 
"  boys  "  who  had  helped  him  to  his  beautiful  mask. 

"No!  no!  Lucy  Long!  Give  us  Lucy  Long!"  cried 
another. 

"  Can't  you  dance  Jim  Crow  ?  Try  it.  I'll  sing  the 
1  wheel  about  and  turn  about,  and  do  jist  so.1  Now 
begin." 

And  the  last  speaker  commenced  singing  Jim  Crow. 

W neither  understood  nor  relished  all  this.  But 

the  more  angry  and  mystified  he  became,  the  louder  laugh 
ed  the  company  and  the  freer  became  their  jests.  At  last, 
in  a  passion,  he  swore  at  us  lustily,  and  leaving  the  bar 
room,  in  high  dudgeon,  took  his  horse  from  the  stable  and 
rode  off. 

It  was  past  eleven  o'clock.  The  night  was  cold,  and  a 

ride  of  two  miles  made  W sober  enough  to  understand 

that  he  had  been  rather  drunk,  and  was  still  a  good  deal  "  in 
for  it ;"  and  that  it  wouldn't  exactly  do  for  his  wife  to  see 
him  just  as  he  was.  So  he  rode  a  mile  past  his  house,  and 
then  back  again,  at  a  slow  trot,  concluding  that  by  this 
time  the  good  woman  was  fast  asleep.  And  so  she  was. 
He  entered  the  house,  crept  silently  up  stairs,  and  got 
quietly  into  bed,  without  his  better  half  being  wiser  there 
for. 

On  the  next  morning,  Mrs.  W awoke  first.  But 

what  was  her  surprise  and  horror,  upon  rising  up,  to  see, 
instead  of  her  lawful  husband,  what  she  thought  a  strap 
ping  negro,  as  black  as  charcoal,  lying  at  her  side.  Her 
first  impulse  was  to  scream ;  but  her  presence  of  mind  in 
this  trying  position,  enabled  her  to  keep  silence.  You  may 
be  sure  that  she  didn't  remain  long  in  such  a  close  contact 
with  Sir  Darkey.  Not  she !  For,  slipping  out  of  bed 
quickly,  but  noiselessly,  she  glided  from  the  room,  and  was 
soon  down  stairs  in  the  kitchen,  where  a  stout,  two-fisted 
Irish  girl  was  at  work  preparing  breakfast. 

"  Oh  !  dear!  Kitty!"  she  exclaimed,  panting  for  breath, 
and  looking  as  pale  as  a  ghost,  "  have  you  seen  any  thing 
of  Mr.  W ,  this  morning?" 

"  Och !  no.  But  what  ails  ye  ?  Ye're  as  white  as  a 
shate  ?" 

"Oh!  mercy!  Kitty.  You  wouldn't  believe  it,  but 
there's  a  monstrous  negro  in  my  room !" 


248  HOW     TO   CURE     A    TOPER. 

Gracious  me !  Mrs.  W ,  a  nager  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Kitty!"  returned  Mrs.  W ,  trembling 

in  every  limb.    "  And  worse  and  worse,  he's  in  my  bed !    I 

just  'woke  up  and  thought  it  was  Mr.  W by  my  side. 

But,  when  I  looked  over,  I  saw  instead  of  his  face,  one  as 
black  as  the  stove.  Mercy  on  me  !  I  was  frightened  almost 
to  death." 

"  Is  he  aslape  ?"  asked  Kitty. 

"Yes,  sound  asleep  and  snoring.     Oh!   dear!     What 

shall  we  do  ?     Where  in  the  world  is  Mr.  W ?     I'm 

afraid  this  negro  has  murdered  him." 

"  Och !  the  blasted  murtherin'  thafe !"  exclaimed  Kitty, 
her  organ  of  combativeness,  which  was  very  large,  becom 
ing  terribly  excited.  Get  into  mistress's  bed,  and  the  leddy 
there  herself,  the  omadhoun  !  The  black,  murtherin'  thafe 
of  a  villain !" 

And  Kitty,  thinking  of  no  danger  to  herself,  and  making 
no  calculation  of  consequences,  seized  a  stout  hickory 
clothes  pole  that  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  kitchen,  and 
went  up  stairs  like  a  whirlwind,  banging  the  pole  against 
the  door,  balusters,  or  whatever  came  in  its  way.  The 

noise  roused  W. •  from  his  sleep,  and  he  raised  up  in 

bed  just  as  Kitty  entered  the  room. 

"  Oh!  you  murtherin'  thafe  of  a  villain!"  shouted  Kitty, 
as  she  caught  sight  of  his  black  face,  pitching  into  him  with 
her  pole,  and  sweeping  off  his  night-cap,  at  the  imminent 
risk  of  taking  his  head  with  it. 

"  Hallo!"  he  cried,  not  at  all  liking  this  strange  proceed 
ing,  "  are  you  mad  ?" 

"  Mad  is  it,  ye  thafe !"  retorted  Kitty,  who  did  not  recog 
nize  the  voice,  and  taking  a  surer  aim  this  time  with  her 
pole,  brought  him  a  tremendous  blow  alongside  of  the 
head,  which  knocked  him  senseless. 

Mrs.  W who  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  heard 

her  husband's  exclamation,  and,  knowing  his  voice,  came 
rushing  up,  and  entered  the  room  in  time  to  see  Kitty's  for 
midable  weapon  come  with  terrible  force  against  his  head. 
Before  the  blow  could  be  repeated,  for  Kitty,  ejaculating 
her  "  murtherin'  thafe  of  a  villain !"  had  lifted  the  pole 

again,  Mrs.  W threw  her  arms  around  her  neck,  and 

cried,  "  Don't,  don't,  Kitty,  for  mercy's  sake !"  It's  Mr. 
W ,  and  you've  killed  him  !" 


HOW    TO     CURE     A     TOPER.  251 

"  Mr.  W indade !"  retorted  Kitty,  indignantly, 

struggling  to  free  herself.  "  Is  Mr.  W a  thafe  of  a 

nager,  ma'am?" 

But  even  Kitty's  eyes,  as  soon  as  they  took  the  pains  to 
look  more  closely,  saw  that  it  was  indeed  all  as  the  mistress 

had  said.  W had  fallen  over  on  his  face,  and  his 

head  and  white  neck  were  not  to  be  mistaken. 

The  pole  dropped  from  Kitty's  hands,  and,  with  the  ex 
clamation,  "  Och!  murther!"  she  turned  and  shot  from  the 
room,  with  as  good  a  will  as  she  had  entered  it. 

The  blow  which  W received  was  severe,  breaking 

through  the  flesh  and  bruising  and  lacerating  his  ear  badly. 
He  recovered  very  soon,  however,  and,  as  he  arose  up, 
caught  sight  of  himself  in  a  looking  glass  that  hung  oppo 
site.  We  may  be  sure  that  it  took  all  parties,  in  this  ex 
citing  and  almost  tragical  affair,  some  time  to  understand 

exactly  what  was  the  matter.  W 's  recollection  of  the 

loud  merriment  that  had  driven  him  from  the  "  Black 
Horse  "  on  the  previous  night,  when  it  revived,  as  it  did 
pretty  soon,  explained  all  to  him,  and  set  him  to  talking  in 
a  most  unchristian  manner. 

Poor  Kitty  was  so  frightened  at  what  she  had  done  that 
she  gathered  up  her  "duds''  and  fled  instanter,  and  was 
never  again  seen  in  that  neighborhood. 

As  for  W ,  he  was  cured  of  his  nocturnal  visits  to 

the  "  Black  Horse,"  and  his  love  of  whisky  toddy. 
Some  months  afterwards  he  espoused  the  temperance  cause, 
and  I've  heard  him  tell  the  tale  myself,  many  a  time,  and 
laugh  heartily  at  the  figure  he  must  have  cut,  when  Kitty 
commenced  beating  him  for  a  "  thafe  of  a  nager." 


THE  BROKEN  PLEDGE. 


"  IT  is  two  years,  this  very  day,  since  I  signed  the 
pledge,"  remarked  Jonas  Marshall,  a  reformed  drinker, 
to  his  wife,  beside  whom  he  sat  one  pleasant  summer 
evening,  enjoying  the  coolness  and  quiet  of  that  calm 
hour. 

"Two  years!  And  is  it,  indeed,  so  long?"  was  the 
reply.  "  How  swiftly  time  passes,  when  the  heart  is  not 
oppressed  with  cape  and  sorrow !" 

"  To  me,  they  have  been  the  happiest  of  my  life,"  re 
sumed  the  husband.  "How  much  do  we  owe  to  tnis 
blessed  reformation !" 

"  Blessed,  indeed,  may  it  be  called !"  the  wife  said, 
with  feeling. 

"  It  seems  scarcely  possible,  Jane,  that  one,  who,  like 
me,  had  become  such  a  slave  to  intoxication,  could  have 
been  reclaimed.  I  often  think  of  myself,  and  wonder. 
A  little  over  two  years  ago,  I  could  no  more  control  the 
intolerable  desire  for  liquor  that  I  felt,  than  I  could  fly. 
Now  I  have  not  the  least  inclination  to  touch,  taste,  or 
handle  it." 

"  And  I  pray  Heaven  you  may  never  again  have  !" 

"  That  danger  is  past,  Jane.  Two  years  of  total  ab 
stinence  have  completely  changed  the  morbid  craving  once 
felt  for  artificial  stimulus,  into  a  natural  and  healthy  de 
sire  for  natural  and  healthy  aliments." 

"  It  would  be  dangerous  for  you  even  now,  Jonas,  to 
suffer  a  drop  of  liquor  to  pass  your  lips ;  do  you  not 
think  so  ?" 

"  There  would  be  no  particular  danger  in  my  tasting 
liquor,  I  presume.  The  danger  would  be,  as  at  first,  in 
the  use  of  it,  until  an  appetite  was  formed."  Marshall 
replied,  in  a  tone  of  confidence. 

"  Then  you  think  that  old,  inordinate  craving  for  drink, 
has  been  entirely  eradicated  ?" 
252 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  253 

"  O  yes,  I  am  confident  of  it." 

"And  heartily  glad  am  I  to  hear  you  say  so.  It 
doubles  the  guarantee  for  our  own  and  children's  happiness. 
The  pledge  to  guard  us  on  one  side,  and  the  total  loss  of 
all  desire  on  the  other,  is  surely  a  safe  protection.  I  feel, 
that  into  the  future  I  may  now  look,  without  a  single 
painful  anxiety  on  this  account." 

"  Yes,  Jane.  Into  the  future  you  may  look  with  hope. 
And  as  to  the  past,  let  it  sink,  with  all  its  painful  scenes, 
— its  heart-aching  trials,  into  oblivion." 

Jonas  Marshall  and  his  young  wife  had,  many  years 
before  the  period  in  which  the  above  conversation  took 
place,  entered  upon  the  world  with  cheerfur  hopes,  and  a 
flattering  promise  of  happiness.  They  were  young  per 
sons  of  cultivated  tastes,  and  had  rather  more  of  this 
world's  goods  than  ordinarily  falls  to  the  lot  of  those  just 
commencing  life.  A  few  years  sufficed  to  dash  all  their 
hopes  to  the  ground,  and  to  fill  the  heart  of  the  young 
wife  with  a  sorrow  that  it  seemed  impossible  for  her  to 
bear.  Marshall,  from  habitual  drinking  of  intoxicating 
liquors,  found  the  taste  for  them  fully  confirmed  before  he 
dreamed  of  danger,  and  he  had  not  the  strength  of  charac 
ter  at  once  and  for  ever  to  abandon  their  use.  Gradually 
he  went  down,  down,  slowly  at  first,  but  finally  with  a 
rapid  movement,  until  he  found  himself  stripped  of  every 
thing,  and  himself  a  confirmed  drunkard.  For  nearly 
two  years  longer,  he  surrendered  himself  up  to  drink — 
his  wife  and  children  suffering  more  than  my  pen  can 
describe,  or  any  but  the  drunkard's  wife  and  drunkard's 
children  realize. 

Then  came  a  new  era.  A  friend  of  humanity  sought 
put  the  poor,  degraded  wretch,  in  his  misery  and  obscurity, 
and  prevailed  upon  him  to  abandon  his  vile  habits,  and 
pledge  himself  to  total  abstinence.  Two  years  from  the 
day  that  pledge  was  signed,  found  him  again  rising  in  the 
world,  with  health,  peace,  and  comfort,  the  cheerful  in 
mates  of  his  dwelling.  Here  is  the  brief  outline  of  a 
reformed  drinker's  history.  How  many  an  imagination 
can  fill  in  the  dark  shadows,  and  distinct,  mournful  features 
of  the  gloomy  picture  ! 

On  the  day  succeeding  the  second  anniversary  of  Jonas 
Marshall's  reformation,  he  was  engaged  to  dine  with  a 
31 


254  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

few  friends,  and  met  them  at  the  appointed  hour.  With 
the  dessert,  wine  was  introduced.  Among  the  guests 
were  one  or  two  persons  with  whom  Marshall  had  but 
recently  become  acquainted.  They  knew  little  or  nothing 
of  his  former  life.  One  of  them  sat  next  to  him  at  table, 
and  very  naturally  handed  him  the  wine,  with  a  request 
to  drink  with  him. 

"  Thank  you,"  was  the  courteous,  but  firm  reply.  "  1 
do  not  drink  wine." 

Another,  who  understood  the  reason  of  this  refusal, 
observing  it,  remarked — 

"  Our  friend  Marshall  belongs  to  the  tee-totallers." 

"Ah,  indeed!  Then  we  must,  of  course,  excuse  him," 
was  the  gentlemanly  response. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Marshall,  remarked  another,  "  that 
you  temperance  men  are  a  little  too  rigid  in  your  entire 
proscription  of  wine  ?" 

"  For  the  reformed  drinker,"  was  the  reply,  "  it  is 
thought  to  be  the  safest  way  to  cut  off  entirely  every 
thing  that  can,  by  possibility,  inflame  the  appetite.  Some 
argue,  that  when  that  morbid  craving,  which  the  drunkard 
acquires,  is  once  formed,  it  never  can  be  thoroughly 
eradicated." 

"  Do  you  think  the  position  a  true  one  ?"  asked  a  mem 
ber  of  the  party. 

"I  have  my  doubts  of  it,"  Marshall  said.  "For  in 
stance:  Most  of  you  know  that  for  some  years  I  indulged 
to  excess  in  drink.  Two  years  ago  I  abandoned  the  use 
of  wine,  brandy,  and  everything  else  of  an  intoxicating 
nature.  For  a  time,  I  felt  the  cravings  of  an  intense  de 
sire  for  liquor ;  but  my  pledge  of  total  abstinence  restrain 
ed  me  from  any  indulgence.  Gradually,  the  influence  of 
my  old  appetite  subsided,  until  it  ceased  to  be  felt.  And  it 
is  now  more  than  a  year  since  I  have  experienced  the 
slightest  inclination  to  touch  a  drop.  Your  wine  and 
brandy  are  now,  gentlemen,  no  temptation  to  me." 

"  But  if  that  be  the  case,"  urged  a  friend,  "  why  need 
you  restrict  yourself,  so  rigidly,  from  joining  in  a  social 
glass?  Standing,  as  you  evidently  do,  upon  the  ground 
you  occupied,  before,  by  a  too  free  indulgence,  you  pass 
ed,  unfortunately,  the  point  of  self-control :  you  may  now 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  255 

enjoy  the  good  things  of  life  without  abusing  them.  Your 
former  painful  experience  will  guard  you  in  that  respect." 

"  I  am  not  free  to  do  so,"  replied  Marshall. 

«  Why  V 

"  Because  I  have  pledged  myself  never  again  to  drink 
anything  that  can  intoxicate,  and  confirmed  that  pledge 
by  my  sign-manual  —  thus  giving  it  a  double  force  and 
importance." 

"  What  end  had  you  in  view  in  making  that  pledge  ?" 

"  The  emancipation  of  myself  from  the  horrible  bond 
age  in  which  I  had  been  held  for  years." 

"  That  end  is  accomplished." 

"  True.  But  the  obligations  of  my  pledge  are  per 
petual." 

"  That  is  a  mere  figure  of  speech.  You  fully  believed, 
I  suppose,  that  perpetual  total-abstinence  was  absolutely 
necessary  for  your  safety  ?" 

"  I  certainly  did." 

"  You  do  not  believe  so  now  ?" 

"  No.  I  have  seen  reason,  I  think,  to  change  my  views 
in  that  respect.  The  appetite  which  I  believed  would 
remain  throughout  life,  and  need  the  force  of  a  solemn 
bond  to  restrain  it,  has,  under  the  rigid  discipline  of  two 
years,  been  destroyed.  I  now  feel  myself  as  much  above 
the  enslaving  effects  of  intoxicating  liquors,  as  I  ever  did 
in  my  life." 

"  Then,  it  is  clear  to  my  mind,  that  all  the  obligations 
of  your  pledge  are  fulfilled ;  and  that,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  it  ceases  to  be  binding." 

"  I  should  be  very  unwilling  to  violate  that  pledge." 

"  It  would  be,  virtually,  no  violation." 

"  I  cannot  see  it  in  that  light,"  Marshall  said,  although 
you  may  be  perfectly  correct.  At  any  rate,  I  am  not 
now  willing  to  act  up  to  your  interpretation  of  the  mat 
ter." 

This  declaration  closed  the  argument,  as  his  friends  did 
not  feel  any  strong  desire  to  see  him  drink,  and  argued 
the  matter  with  him  as  much  for  argument  sake  as  any 
thing  else.  In  this  they  acted  with  but  little  true  wisdom ; 
for  the  particular  form  in  which  the  subject  was  present 
ed  to  the  mind  of  Marshall,  gave  him  something  to  think 
about  and  reason  about.  And  the  more  he  thought  and 


256  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

reasoned,  the  more  did  he  become  dissatisfied  with  the 
restrictions  under  which  he  found  himself  placed.  Not 
having  felt,  for  many  months,  the  least  desire  for  liquor, 
he  imagined  that  even  the  latent  inclination  which  existed, 
as  he  readily  supposed,  for  some  time,  had  become  al 
together  extinguished.  There  existed,  therefore,  in  his 
estimation,  now  that  he  had  begun  to  think  over  the  mat 
ter,  no  good  reason  why  he  should  abstain,  totally,  from 
wine,  at  least,  on  a  social  occasion. 

The  daily  recurrence  of  such  thoughts,  soon  began  to 
worry  his  mind,  until  the  pledge,  that  had  for  two  years 
lain  so  lightly  upon  him,  became  a  burden  almost  too 
intolerable  to  be  borne. 

"  Why  didn't  I  bind  myself  for  a  limited  period  ?"  he 
at  last  said,  aloud,  thus  giving  a  sanction  and  confirma 
tion  by  word  of  the  thoughts  that  had  been  gradually 
forming  themselves  into  a  decision  in  his  mind.  No 
sooner  had  he  said  this,  than  the  whole  subject  assumed 
a  more  distinct  form,  and  a  more  imposing  aspect  in  his 
view.  He  now  saw  clearly,  what  had  not  before  seemed 
perfectly  plain — what  had  been  till  then  encompassed  by 
doubts.  He  was  satisfied  that  he  had  acted  blindly  when 
he  pledged  himself  to  total-abstinence. 

"  Three  hundred  signed  the  pledge  last  night,"  said  his 
wife  to  him,  a  few  weeks  after  the  occurrence  of  the 
dinner-party,  just  mentioned. 

"  Three  hundred !  We  are  carrying  everything  before 
us." 

"Who  can  tell,"  resumed  the  wife,  "the  amount  of 
happiness  involved  in  three  hundred  pledges  to  total-absti 
nence  ?  There  were,  doubtless,  many  husbands  and  fathers 
among  the  number  who  signed.  Now,  there  is  joy  in 
their  dwellings.  The  fire,  that  long  since  went  out,  is 
again  kindled  upon  their  hearths.  How  deeply  do  I  sym 
pathize  with  the  heart-stricken  wives,  upon  whom  day 
has  again  arisen,  with  a  bright  sun  shining  down  from  an 
unclouded  sky !" 

"  It  is,  truly,  to  them,  a  new  era — or  the  dawning  of  a 
new  existence.  Most  earnestly  do  1  wish  that  the  day 
had  arrived,  which  I  am  sure  will  come,  when  not  a  single 
wife  in  the  land  will  mourn  over  the  wrong  she  suffers  at 
the  hand  of  a  drunken  husband." 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  257 

"  To  that  aspiration,  I  can  utter  a  most  devout  amen," 
Mrs.  Marshall  rejoined,  fervently. 

"A  few  years  of  perseverance  and  well-directed  energy, 
on  our  part,  will  effect  all  this,  I  allow  myself  fondly  to 
hope,  if  we  do  not  create  a  reaction  by  over-doing  the 
matter." 

"  How,  overdoing  it  ?"  asked  the  wife. 

"  There  is  a  danger  of  over-doing  it  in  many  ways. 
And  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  the  pledge  of  perpetual 
abstinence  is  not  an  instance  of  this." 

"  The  pledge  of  perpetual  abstinence !  Why,  husband, 
what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  My  remark  seems  to  occasion  surprise.  But  I  think 
that  I  can  make  the  truth  of  what  I  say  apparent  to  your 
mind.  The  use  of  the  pledge,  you  will  readily  admit,  is 
to  protect  a  man  against  the  influence  of  a  morbid  thirst 
for  liquor,  which  his  own  resolution  is  not  strong  enough 
to  conquer." 

"  Well." 

"  So  soon,  then,  as  this  end  is  gained,  the  use  of  the 
pledge  ceases." 

*'  Is  it  ever  gained  ?  Is  a  man  who  has  once  felt  this 
morbid  thirst,  ever  safe  from  it  ?" 

"  Most  certainly  do  I  believe  that  he  is.  Most  certainly 
do  I  believe  that  a  few  years  of  total  abstinence  from 
everything  that  intoxicates,  will  place  him  on  the  precise 
ground  that  he  occupied  before  the  first  drop  of  liquor 
passed  his  lips." 

"  I  cannot  believe  this,  Jonas.  Whatever  is  once  con 
firmed  by  habit,  it  seems  to  me,  must  be  so  incorporated 
into  the  mental  and  physical  organization,  as  never  to  be 
eradicated.  Its  effect  is  to  change,  in  a  degree,  the  whole 
system,  and  to  change  it  so  thoroughly,  as  to  give  a  bias 
to  all  succeeding  states  of  mind  and  body — thus  trans 
mitting  a  tendency  to  come  under  the  influence  of  that 
bias." 

"  You  advance  a  thing,  Jane,  which  will  not  hold  good 
in  practice.  As,  for  instance,  it  is  now  two  years  since  I 
tasted  a  drop  of  wine,  brandy,  or  anything  else  of  a  like 
nature.  If  your  theory  were  true,  I  should  still  feel  a 
latent  desire,  at  times,  to  drink  again.  But  this  is  not  the 
case.  I  have  not  the  slightest  inclination.  The  sight,  or 


258  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

even  the  smell  of  wine,  does  not  produce  the  old  desire, 
which  it  would  inevitably  do,  if  it  were  only  quiescent — 
not  extirpated — as  I  am  confident  that  it  is." 

"And  this  is  the  reason  why  you  think  the  pledge  should 
not  be  perpetual  ?" 

"  It  is.     Why  should  there  be  an  external  restraint  im 
posed  upon  a  mere  nonentity  ?     It  is  absurd  !" 

"Granting,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  the  view  you 
take,  in  regard  to  the  extirpation  of  the  morbid  desire, 
which,  however,  I  cannot  see  to  be  true,"  Mrs.  Marshall 
said,  endeavouring  to  seem  unconcerned,  notwithstanding 
the  position  assumed  by  her  husband  troubled  her  in 
stinctively, — "  it  seems  to  me,  that  there  still  exists  a  good 
reason  why  the  pledge  should  be  perpetual." 

"  What  is  that,  Jane?" 

"  If  a  man  has  once  been  led  off  by  a  love  of  drink, 
when  no  previous  habit  had  been  formed,  there  exists,  at 
least,  the  same  danger  again,  if  liquor  be  used  ; — and  if 
it  should  possibly  be  true  that  the  once  formed  desire,  if 
subdued,  is  latent — not  eradicated — the  danger  is  quad 
rupled." 

"  I  do  not  see  the  force  of  what  you  say,"  the  husband 
replied.  "  To  me,  it  seems,  that  the  very  fact  that  he  had 
once  fallen,  and  the  remembrance  of  its  sad  consequences, 
would  be  a  sure  protection  against  another  lapse  from 
sobriety." 

"  It  may  all  be  so,"  Mrs.  Marshall  said,  in  a  voice  that 
conveyed  a  slight  evidence  of  the  sudden  shadow  that 
had  fallen  upon  her  heart.  And  then  ensued  a  silence  of 
more  than  a  minute.  The  wife  then  remarked  in  an 
inquiring  tone — 

"  Then,  if  I  understand  you  rightly,  you  think  that  the 
pledge  should  be  binding  only  for  a  limited  time  1" 

"I  do." 

"  How  long  ?" 

"  From  one  to  two  years.  Two,  at  the  farthest,  would 
be  sufficient,  I  am  fully  convinced,  to  restore  any  man 
to  the  healthy  tone  of  mind  and  body  that  he  once  pos 
sessed.  And  then,  the  recollection  of  the  past  would  be 
an  all-sufficient  protection  for  the  future." 

Seeing  that  the  husband  was  confirming  himself  more 
and  more  in  the  dangerous  position  that  he  had  assumed, 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  259 

Mrs.  Marsnall  said  no  more.  Painfully  conscious  was 
she,  from  a  knowledge  of  his  peculiar  character,  that,  if 
the  idea  now  floating  in  his  mind  should  become  fixed  by 
a  rational  confirmation,  it  would  lead  to  evil  consequences. 
From  that  moment,  she  began  eagerly  to  cast  about  in 
her  mind  for  the  means  of  setting  him  right, — means  that 
should  fully  operate,  without  her  apparent  agency.  But 
one  way  presented  itself, — (argument,  she  was  well  aware, 
as  far  as  it  was  possible  for  her  to  enter  into  it  with  him, 
would  only  set  his  mind  the  more  earnestly  in  search  of 
reason,  to  prove  the  correctness  of  his  assumed  positions,) 
— and  that  was  to  induce  him  to  attend  more  frequently 
the  temperance  meetings,  and  listen  to  the  addresses  and 
experiences  there  given. 

"  Come,  dear,"  she  said  to  him,  after  tea,  a  few  even 
ings  subsequent  to  the  time  Marshall  had  begun  to  urge 
his  objections  to  the  pledge.  "  I  want  you  to  go  with  me 

to-night  to  this  great  temperance  meeting.     Mr. is 

going  to  make  an    address,  and  I  wish  to  hear  him  very 
much." 

"  It  will  be  so  crowded,  Jane,  that  you  will  not  have 
the  least  satisfaction,"  objected  her  husband  —  "and, 
besides,  the  evening  is  very  warm." 

"  But  I  don't  mind  that,  Jonas.  I  am  very  anxious  to 
hear  Mr. speak." 

"  I  am  sorry,  Jane,"  Marshall  said,  after  the  silence  of 
a  few  moments.  "  But  I  recollect,  now,  that  I  promised 
Mr.  Patton  to  call  down  and  see  him  this  evening.  There 
are  to  be  a  few  friends  there,  and  he  wished  me,  particu 
larly,  to  meet  them." 

Poor  Mrs.  Marshall's  countenance  fell  at  this,  and  the 
tears  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

"  So,  then,  you  won't  go  with  me  to  the  temperance 
meeting,"  she  said,  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"  I  should  like  to  do  so,  Jane,"  was  the  prevaricating 
reply,  "  but  you  see  that  it  is  out  of  my  power,  without 
breaking  my  promise,  which  you  would  not,  of  course, 
have  me  do." 

"  O,  no,  of  course  not." 

"  You  can  go,  Jane.  I  will  leave  you  at  the  door,  and 
call  for  you  when  the  meeting  is  out." 

"  No,  I  do  not  feel  like  going,  now      I   should   have 


260  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

enjoyed  it  with  you  by  my  side.     But  to  go  alone  would 
mar  all  the  pleasure." 

"  But  surely  that  need  not  be,  Jane.  You  know  that  I 
cannot  be  always  with  you." 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  was  uttered,  mechanically ;  and 
then  followed  a  long  silence. 

"  So  you  will  not  go,"  Marshall  at  length  said. 

"  I  should  not  enjoy  the  meeting,  and  therefore  do  not 
•wish  to  go,"  his  wife  replied. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it,  but  cannot  help  it  now,  for  I  should 
not  feel  right  were  I  not  to  comply  with  my  promise." 

"  I  do  not  wish  you  to  break  it,  of  course.  For  a  pro 
mise  should  ever  be  kept  sacred,"  Mrs.  Marshall  said, 
with  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  latter  sentence. 

This  emphasis  did  not  escape  the  notice  of  her  hus 
band,  who  felt  that  it  was  meant,  as  it  really  was,  to 
apply  to  his  state  of  mind  in  regard  to  the  pledge.  For 
it  was  a  fact,  which  the  instinctive  perception  of  his  wife 
had  detected,  that  he  had  begun,  seriously,  to  argue  in 
his  own  mind,  the  question,  whether,  under  the  circum 
stances  of  the  case,  seeing,  that,  in  taking  the  pledge,  the 
principle  of  protection  was  alone  considered,  he  was  any 
longer  bound  by  it.  He  did  not,  however,  give  expres 
sion  to  the  thoughts  that  he  had  at  the  time.  The  subject 
of  conversation  was  changed,  and,  in  the  course  of  half 
an  hour,  he  left  to  fulfil  his  engagement,  which  had  not, 
in  reality,  been  a  positive  one.  As  he  closed  the  door 
after  him,  Mrs.  Marshall  experienced  a  degree  of  loneli 
ness,  and  a  gloomy  depression  of  feeling,  that  she  could 
not  fully  account  for,  though  she  could  not  but  acknowledge 
that,  for  a  portion  of  it,  there  existed  too  certain  a  cause, 
in  the  strange  and  dangerous  position  her  husband  had 
taken  in  regard  to  the  pledge. 

As  Marshall  emerged  from  his  dwelling,  and  took  his 
way  towards  the  friend's  house,  where  he  expected  to 
meet  a  select  company,  his  mind  did  not  feel  perfectly  at 
ease.  He  had  partly  deceived  his  wife  in  reference  to 
the  positive  nature  of  the  engagement,  and  had  done  so 
in  order  to  escape  from  an  attendance  on  a  temperance 
meeting.  This  did  not  seem  right.  There  was,  also,  a 
consciousness  in  his  mind  that  it  would  be  extremely 
hazardous  to  throw  off  the  restraints  of  his  pledge,  at  the 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  261 

same  time  that  a  resolution  was  already  half  formed  to 
do  so.  The  agitation  of  mind  occasioned  by  this  conflict 
continued  until  he  arrived  at  his  friend's  door,  and  then, 
as  he  joined  the  pleasant  company  within,  it  all  subsided. 

"  A  hearty  welcome,  Marshall !"  said  the  friend,  grasp 
ing  his  hand  and  shaking  it  warmly.  "  We  were  really 
afraid  that  we  should  not  have  the  pleasure  of  your  good 
society.  But  right  glad  am  I,  that,  with  your  adherence 
to  temperance  men  and  temperance  principles,  you  do  not 
partake  of  the  exclusive  and  unsocial  character  that  so 
many  assume." 

"  I  regard  my  friends  with  the  same  warm  feelings 
that  I  ever  did,"  Marshall  replied,  —  "and  love  to  meet 
them  as  frequently." 

"  That  is  right.  We  are  social  beings,  and  should  cul 
tivate  reciprocal  good-feelings.  But  don't  you  think, 
Marshall,  that  some  of  you  temperance  folks  carry  mat 
ters  too  far  1" 

"  Certainly  I  do.  As,  for  instance,  I  consider  this  bind 
ing  of  a  man  to  perpetual  total-abstinence,  as  an  unneces 
sary  infringement  of  individual  liberty.  As  I  look  upon 
it,  the  use  of  the  pledge,  is  to  enable  a  man,  by  the  power 
of  an  external  restraint,  to  gain  the  mastery  over  an  ap 
petite  that  has  mastered  him.  When  that  is  accomplish 
ed,  all  that  is  wanted  is  obtained:  of  what  use  is  the 
pledge  after  that  1" 

"  Very  true,"  was  the  encouraging  reply. 

"  A  man,"  resumed  Marshall,  repeating  the  argument 
he  had  used  to  his  wife,  which  now  seemed  still  more 
conclusive,  "  has  only  to  abstain  for  a  year  or  two  from 
liquor  to  have  the  morbid  craving  for  it  which  over-indul 
gence  had  created,  entirely  eradicated.  Then  he  stand* 
upon  safe  ground,  and  may  take  a  social  glass,  occasion 
ally,  with  his  friends,  without  the  slightest  danger.  To 
bind  himself  up,  then,  to  perpetual  abstinence,  seems  not 
only  useless,  but  a  real  infringement  of  individual  liberty." 

"  So  it  present^  itself  to  my  mind,"  rejoined  one  of  the 
company. 

"  I  feel  it  to  be  so  in  my  case,"  was  the  reply  of  the 
reformed  man  to  this,  thus  going  on  to  invite  temptation, 
instead  of  fleeing  from  it. 

"Certainly,  if  I  were  the  individual  concerned,"  re- 
32 


262  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

marked  one  of  the  company,  "  I  should  not  be  long  in 
breaking  away  from  such  arbitrary  restrictions." 

"  How  would  you  get  over  the  fact  of  having  signed 
the  pledge?"  asked  Marshall,  with  an  interest  that  he 
dared  not  acknowledge  to  himself. 

"  Easy  enough,"  was  the  reply. 

«  How  ?" 

"  On  the  plea  that  I  was  deceived  into  signing  such  a 
pledge." 

"  How  deceived  ?" 

"  Into  a  belief  that  it  was  the  only  remedy  in  my  case. 
There  is  no  moral  law  binding  any  man  to  a  contract 
entered  into  ignorantly.  The  fact  of  ignorance,  in  regard 
to  the  fundamental  principles  of  an  agreement,  vitiates  it. 
Is  not  that  true  ?" 

"  It  certainly  is,"  was  the  general  reply  to  this  question. 

"  Then  you  think,"  said  Marshall,  after  reflecting  for  a 
few  moments,  "  that  no  moral  responsibility  would  attach 
to  me,  for  instance,  if  I  were  to  act  independently  of  my 
pledge  ?" 

"Certainly  none  could  attach,"  was  the  general  response ; 
"  provided,  of  course,  that  the  end  of  that  pledge  was  fully 
attained." 

"  Of  that  there  can  be  no  doubt,"  was  the  assumption 
of  the  reformed  man.  "  The  end  was,  to  save  me  from 
the  influence  of  an  appetite  for  drink,  against  which,  in 
my  own  strength,  I  could  not  contend.  That  end  is  now 
accomplished.  Two  years  of  total  abstinence  has  made 
me  a  new  man.  I  now  occupy  the  same  ground  that  I 
occupied  before  I  lost  my  self-control." 

"  Then  I  can  see  no  reason  why  you  should  be  denied 
the  social  privilege  of  a  glass  with  your  friends,"  urged 
one  of  the  company. 

"  Nor  can  I  see  it  clearly,"  Marshall  said.  "  Still  I 
feel  that  a  solemn  pledge,  made  more  solemn  and  binding 
by  the  subscription  of  my  name,  is  not  a  thing  to  be  lightly 
broken.  The  thought  of  doing  so  troubles  me,  when  1 
seriously  reflect  upon  it." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that,  were  I  in  your  place,"  gravely 
remarked  one  of  the  company,  heretofore  silent,  "I  would 
not  break  my  pledge  without  fully  settling  two  points — if 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  263 

it  is  possible  for  you,  or  any  other  man,  under  like  cir 
cumstances,  to  settle  them." 

"  What  are  they  1"  asked  Marshall,  with  interest. 

"  They  are  the  two  most  prominent  points  in  your  case ; 
—  two  that  have  already  been  introduced  here  to-night. 
One  involves  the  question,  whether  you  are  really  free 
from  the  influence  of  your  former  habits  ?" 

"  I  have  not  a  single  doubt  in  regard  to  that  point," 
was  the  positive  reply. 

"  I  do  not  see,  Mr.  Marshall,  how  it  is  possible  for  you 
to  settle  it  beyond  a  doubt,"  urged  the  friend.  "  To  me, 
it  is  not  philosophically  true  that  the  power  of  habit  is 
ever  entirely  destroyed.  All  subsequent  states  of  body 
or  mind,  I  fully  believe,  are  affected  and  modified  by  what 
has  gone  before,  and  never  lose  the  impression  of  preced 
ing  states,  —  and  more  particularly  of  anything  like  an 
overmastering  habit  —  or  rather.,  I  should  say,  in  this 
case,  of  an  overmastering  affection.  The  love,  desire,  or 
affection,  whichever  you  may  choose  to  call  it,  which  you 
once  felt  for  intoxicating  drinks,  or  for  the  effects  produced 
by  them,  never  could  have  existed  in  the  degree  that 
they  did,  without  leaving  on  your  mind — which  is  a  some 
thing  far  more  real  and  substantial  than  this  material 
body,  which  never  loses  the  marks  and  scars  of  former 
abuse — ineradicable  impressions.  The  forms  of  old  ha 
bits,  if  this  be  true,  and  that  it  so,  /  fully  believe,  still  re 
main  ;  and  these  forms  are  in  the  endeavour,  if  I  may  so 
speak,  to  be  filled  with  the  affections  that  once  made  them 
living  and  active.  Rigidly  exclude  everything  that  can 
excite  these,  and  you  are  safe ; — but,  to  me  it  seems,  that 
no  experiment  can  be  so  dangerous,  as  one  which  will 
inevitably  produce  in  these  forms  a  vital  activity." 

"  That,  it  seems  to  me,"  was  the  reply  of  one  of  the 
company,  "  is  a  little  too  metaphysical — or  rather,  I  should 
say,  transcendental  —  for,  certainly,  it  transcends  my 
powers  of  reasoning  to  be  able  to  see  how  any  permanent 
forms,  as  you  call  them,  can  be  produced  in  the  mind,  as 
in  the  body  —  the  one  being  material,  and  the  other  im 
material,  and,  therefore,  no  more  susceptible  of  lasting 
impressions,  than  the  air  around  us." 

"  You  have  not,  I  presume,  given  much  thought  to  this 
subject,"  the  previous  speaker  said,  "  or  you  would  not 


264  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

doubt,  so  fully,  the  truth  of  my  remark.  The  power  of 
habit,  a  fact  of  common  observance,  which  is  nothing  but 
a  fixed  form  of  the  mind,  illustrates  it.  And,  certainly, 
if  the  mind  retained  impressions  no  better  than  the  air 
around  us,  we  should  remember  but  little  of  what  we 
learned  in  early  years." 

"  I  see,"  was  the  reply  to  this,  "  that  my  remark  was 
too  broad.  Still,  the  memory  of  a  thing  is  very  different 
from  a  permanent  and  inordinate  desire  to  do  something 
wrong,  remaining  as  a  latent  principle  in  the  mind,  and 
ready  to  spring  into  activity  years  afterwards,  upon  the 
slightest  provocation." 

"  It  certainly  is  a  different  thing ;  and  if  it  be  really  so, 
its  establishment  is  a  matter  of  vital  importance.  In  re 
gard  to  reformed  drinkers,  there  has  been  much  testimony 
in  proof  of  the  position.  I  have  heard  several  men  relate 
their  experiences ;  and  all  have  said  that  time  and  again 
had  they  resolved  to  conquer  the  habit  that  was  leading 
them  on  headlong  to  destruction ;  and  that  they  had,  on 
jnore  than  one  occasion,  abstained  for  months.  But  that, 
so  soon  as  they  again  put  liquor  to  their  lips,  the  old  desire 
came  back  for  it,  stronger  and  more  uncontrollable  than 
before." 

"  That  was,  I  presume,"  Marshall  remarked,  "  because 
they  had  not  abstained  long  enough." 

"  One  man,  I  remember  to  have  heard  say,  that  he  did 
not  at  one  period  of  his  life  use  any  kind  of  intoxicating 
drink  for  three  years.  He  then  ventured  to  take  a  glass 
of  cider,  and  was  drunk  and  insensible  before  night !  And 
what  was  worse,  did  not  again  rise  superior  to  his  degra 
dation  for  years." 

"  I  should  call  that  an  extreme  case,"  urged  the  in 
fatuated  man.  "  There  must  have  been  with  him  a  here 
ditary  propensity.  His  father  was,  doubtless,  a  drunkard 
before  him." 

"  As  to  that,  I  know  nothing,  and  should  not  be  willing 
to  assume  the  fact  as  a  practical  principle," — the  friend 
replied.  "But  there  is  another  point  that  ought  to  be 
fully  settled." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  No  one  can,  without  seriously  injuring  himself,  moral 
ly,  violate  a  solemn  pledge  —  particularly,  as  you  have 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  265 

justly  said,  a  pledge  made  more  binding  and  solemn,  by 
act  and  deed,  in  the  sign-manual.  A  man  may  verbally 
pledge  himself  to  do  or  not  to  do  a  thing.  To  violate 
this  pledge  deliberately,  involves  moral  consequences  to 
himself  that  are  such  as  almost  any  one  would  shrink 
from  incurring.  But  when  a  man  gives  to  any  pledge  or 
contract  a  fulness  and  a  confirmation  by  the  act  of  sub 
scribing  his  name  to  it,  and  then  deliberately  violates  that 
pledge  or  contract,  he  necessarily  separates  himself  still 
further  from  the  saving  power  of  good  principles  and  in 
fluences  than  in  the  other  case,  and  comes  more  fully 
under  the  power  of  evil  principles  and  evil  influences. 
After  such  an  act,  that  man's  state  is  worse,  far  worse 
than  it  was  before.  I  speak  strongly  and  earnestly  on 
this  subject,  because  I  feel  deeply  its  importance.  And  I 
would  say  to  our  friend  Marshall  here,  as  I  would  say  to 
my  own  brother,  let  these  two  points  be  fully  settled  before 
you  venture  upon  dangerous  ground.  Be  sure  that  the 
latent  desire  for  stimulating  drinks  is  fully  eradicated  — 
and  be  certain  that  your  pledge  can  be  set  aside  without 
great  moral  injury  to  yourself,  before  you  take  the  first 
step  towards  its  violation,  which  may  be  a  step  fraught 
with  the  most  fatal  consequences  to  yourself  and  family." 

This  unlooked-for  and  serious  turn  which  the  discus 
sion  assumed,  had  the  effect  to  make  Marshall  hesitate  to 
do  what  he  had  too  hastily  made  his  mind  up  that  he 
might  venture  Tipon  without  the  slightest  danger.  It  also 
furnished  reasons  to  the  company  why  they  should  not 
urge  him  to  drink.  The  result  was,  that  he  escaped 
through  all  the  temptations  of  the  evening,  which  would 
have  overcome  him,  inevitably,  had  his  own  inclination 
found  a  general  voice  of  encouragement. 

But  none  of  the  strong  arguments  why  he  should  not 
again  run  madly  into  the  way  of  evil,  which  had  been  so 
opportunely  and  unexpectedly  urged,  had  the  effect  to  keep 
his  eye  off  of  the  decanters  and  brim-full  glasses  that  cir 
culated  far  too  freely ; — nor  to  prevent  the  sight  of  them 
from  exciting  in  his  mind  a  strong,  almost  unconquerable 
desire,  to  join  with  the  rest.  This  very  desire  ought  to 
have  warned  him — it  should  have  caused  him  to  tremble 
and  flee  away  as  if  a  raging  wild  beast  had  stood  in  his 
path.  But  it  did  not.  He  deceived  himself  by  assuming 


266  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

hat  the  desire  which  he  felt  to  drink  with  his  friends 
arose  from  his  love  of  sociality,  not  of  wine. 

The  evening  was  lonely  and  long  to  Mrs.  Marshall,  and 
there  was  a  shadow  over  her  feelings  that  she  endeavour 
ed  in  vain  to  dispel.  Her  husband's  knock,  which  came 
between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  and  for  which  she  had 
been  listening  anxiously  for  at  least  an  hour,  made  her 
heart  bound  and  tremble,  producing  a  feeling  of  weakness 
and  oppression.  As  she  opened  the  door  for  him,  it  was 
with  a  vague  fear.  This  was  instantly  dispelled  by  his 
first  affectionate  word  uttered  in  steady  tones.  He  was 
still  himself!  Still  as  he  had  been  for  the  blessed  two 
years  that  had  just  gone  by ! 

"What  is  the  matter,  Jane?  You  look  troubled,"  the 
husband  remarked,  after  he  had  seated  himself,  and  ob 
served  his  wife's  appearance. 

"Do  I?  —  If  so,  it  is  because  I  have  felt  troubled  this 
evening." 

"  Why  were  you  troubled,  Jane  ?" 

"  That  question  I  can  hardly  answer,  either  to  your 
satisfaction  or  my  own,"  Mrs.  Marshall  said.  "  From 
some  cause  or  other,  my  feelings  have  been  strangely 
depressed  this  evening ;  and  I  have  experienced,  besides, 
a  consciousness  of  coming  misery,  that  has  cast  a  shadow 
over  my  spirits,  even  now  but  half  dispelled." 

"  But  why  is  all  this,  Jane  ?  There  must  be  some 
cause  for  such  a  change  in  your  feelings." 

"  I  know  but  one  cause,  dear  husband !"  Mrs.  Marshall 
said,  in  a  voice  of  deep  tenderness,  laying  her  hand  upon 
her  husband's  arm  as  she  spoke,  and  looking  him  in  the 
face  with  an  expression  of  earnest  affection. 

"  Speak  out  plainly,  Jane.     What  is  the  cause?" 

"  Do  not  be  offended,  Jonas,  when  I  tell  you,  that  I 
have  not  been  so  overcome  by  such  gloomy  feelings  since 
that  happy  day  when  you  signed  the  pledge,  as  1  havo 
been  this  evening.  The  cause  of  these  feelings  lies  in  the 
fact  of  your  having  become  dissatisfied  with  that  pledge. 
I  tremble,  lest,  in  some  unguarded  moment,  under  the 
assurance  that  old  habits  are  conquered,  you  may  be  per 
suaded  to  cast  aside  that  impassable  barrier,  which  has 
protected  your  home  and  little  ones  for  so  long  and  happy 
a  time." 


THE     BROKEN    PLEDGE.  267 

"You  are  weak  and  foolish,  Jane,"  her  husband  said 
.n  a  half-offended  tone. 

"In  many  things  I  know  that  I  am,"  was  Mrs.  Mar 
shall's  reply  "  but  not  in  this.  A  wife  who  loves  her 
husband  and  children  as  tenderly  as  I  do  mine,  cannot 
but  tremble  when  fears  are  suddenly  awakened  that  the 
footsteps  of  a  deadly  enemy  are  approaching  her  peaceful 
dwelling." 

"  Such  an  enemy  is  not  drawing  nigh  to  your  dwelling, 
Jane." 

"  Heaven  grant  that  it  may  not  be  so !"  was  the  solemn 
ejaculation. 

"  To  this,  Marshall  felt  no  inclination  to  reply.  He 
had  already  said  enough  in  regard  to  his  pledge  to  awaken 
the  fears  of  his  wife,  and  to  call  forth  from  her  expressions 
of  strong  opposition  to  his  views  of  the  nature  of  his 
obligation.  His  silence  tended,  in  no  degree,  to  quiet 
her  troubled  feelings. 

On  the  next  morning,  Marshall  was  thoughtful  and  si 
lent.  After  breakfast,  he  went  out  to  attend  to  business, 
as  usual.  As  he  closed  the  door  after  him,  his  wife  heaved 
a  deep  sigh,  lifted  her  eyes  upwards,  and  prayed  silently, 
but  fervently,  that  her  husband  might  be  kept  from  evil. 
And  well  might  she  thus  pray,  for  he  needed  support  and 
sustenance  in  the  conflict  that  was  going  on  in  his  bosom 
— a  conflict  far  more  vigorous  than  was  dreamed  of  by 
the  wife.  He  had  invited  temptation,  and  now  he  was  in 
the  midst  of  a  struggle,  that  would  end  in  a  more  perfect 
emancipation  of  himself  from  the  demon-vice  that  had 
once  ruled  him  with  a  rod  of  iron,  or  in  his  being  cast 
down  to  a  lower  depth  of  wretchedness  and  misery  than 
that  out  of  which  he  had  arisen.  In  this  painful  struggle 
he  stood  not  alone.  Good  spirits  clustered  around  him, 
anxiously  interested  in  his  fate,  and  endeavouring  to  sus 
tain  his  faltering  purposes ;  and  evil  spirits  were  also 
nigh,  infusing  into  his  mind  reasons  for  the  abandonment 
of  his  useless  pledge.  It  was  a  period  in  his  history  full 
of  painful  interest.  Heaven  was  moving  forward  to  aid 
and  rescue  him,  and  hell  to  claim  another  victim.  But 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other  could  act  upon  him  for  good 
or  for  evil,  except  through  his  own  volition.  It  was  for 


268  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

nim  to  turn  himself  to  the  one,  and  live,  or  to  the  other, 
and  die. 

So  intense  was  this  struggle,  that,  after  he  had  entered 
nis  place  of  business,  he  remained  there  for  only  a  short 
time,  unable  to  fix  his  mind  upon  anything  out  of  himself, 
or  to  bid  the  tempest  in  his  mind  "  be  still."  Going  out 
into  the  street,  he  turned  his  steps  he  knew  not  whither. 
He  had  moved  onwards  but  a  few  paces,  when  the 
thought  of  home  and  his  children  came  up  in  his  mind, 
accompanied  by  a  strong  desire  to  go  back  to  his  dwell 
ing — a  feeling  that  required  a  strong  effort  to  resist.  The 
moment  he  had  effectually  resisted  it,  and  resolved  not  to 
go  home,  his  eye  fell  upon  the  tempting  exposure  of  liquors 
in  a  bar-room,  near  which  he  happened  to  be  passing. 
At  the  same  instant,  it  seemed  as  if  a  strong  hand  were 
upon  him,  urging  him  towards  the  open  door. 

"  No — no — no  !"  he  said,  half  aloud,  hurrying  forward, 
"  I  am  not  prepared  for  that.  And  yet,  what  a  fool  I 
am,"  he  continued,  "to  suffer  myself  thus  to  be  agitated! 
Why  not  come  to  some  decision,  and  end  this  uncertain, 
painful  state  at  once  ?  But  what  shall  I  do  1  How  shall 
I  decide  ? 

"  To  keep  your  pledge  "  a  voice,  half  audible,  seemed 
to  say. 

"  And  be  for  ever  restless  under  it, — for  ever  galled  by 
ts  slavish  chains,"  another  voice  urged,  instantly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  that  is  the  consequence  which  makes 
me  hesitate.  Fcol — fool — not  to  have  taken  a  pledge  for 
a  limited  period!  I  was  deceived — tricked  into  an  act 
that  my  sober  reason  condemns  !  And  should  I  now  be 
held  by  that  act?  No  ! — no  ! — no !  The  voice  of  reason 
says  no  !  And  I  will  not !" 

As  he  said  this,  he  turned  about,  and  walked  with  a 
firm,  deliberate  step,  towards  the  bar-room  he  had  passed 
but  a  few  moments  before,  entered  it,  called  for  a  glass 
of  wine,  and  drank  it  off. 

"  Now  I  am  a  free  man !"  he  said,  as  he  turned  away, 
and  proceeded  towards  his  place  of  business,  with  an 
erect  bearing. 

He  had  not  gone  far,  however,  before  he  felt .  a  strong 
desire  for  another  glass  of  wine,  unaccompanied  by  any 
thought  or  fear  of  danger.  From  the  moment  he  ha£ 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  269 

placed  the  forbidden  draught  to  his  lips,  the  struggle  in 
his  mind  had  ceased,  and  a  great  calm  succeeded  to  a 
wild  conflict  of  opposite  principles  and  influences.  He 
felt  happy,  and  doubly  assured  that  he  had  taken  a  right 
step.  A  second  glass  of  wine  succeeded  the  first,  and 
then  a  third,  before  he  returned  to  his  place  of  business. 
These  gave  to  the  tone  of  his  spirits  a  very  perceptible 
elevation,  but  threw  over  his  mind  a  veil  of  confusion  and 
obscurity,  of  which,  however,  he  was  not  conscious.  An 
hour  only  had  passed  after  his  return  to  business,  before 
he  again  went  out,  and  seeking  an  obscure  drinking-house, 
where  his  entrance  would  not  probably  be  observed,  he 
called  for  a  glass  of  punch,  and  then  retired  into  one  of 
the  boxes,  where  it  was  handed  to  him.  Its  fragrance 
and  flavour,  as  he  placed  it  to  his  lips,  were  delightful  — 
so  delightful,  that  it  seemed  to  him  a  concentration  of  all 
exquisite  perceptions  of  the  senses. 

Another  was  soon  called  for,  and  then  another  and 
another,  each  one  stealing  away  more  and  more  of  dis 
tinct  consciousness,  until  at  last  he  sunk  forward  on  the 
table  before  which  he  had  seated  himself,  perfectly  lost  to 
all  consciousness  of  external  things  ! 

Gladly  would  the  writer  draw  a  veil  over  all  that  fol 
lowed  that  insane  violation  of  a  solemn  pledge,  sealed  as 
it  had  been  by  the  hand-writing  of  confirmation.  But  he 
cannot  do  it.  The  truth,  and  the  whole  truth  needs  to  be 
told, —  the  beacon-light  must  be  raisted  on  the  gloomy 
shores  of  destruction,  as  a  warning  to*  the  thoughtless  or 
careless  navigator. 

Sadder  and  more  wretched  was  the  heart  of  Mrs. 
Marshall  during  the  morning  of  that  day,  than  it  had  been 
on  the  evening  before.  There  was  an  overwhelming 
sense  of  impending  danger  in  her  mind,  that  she  could 
not  dissipate  by  any  mode  of  reasoning  with  herself.  As 
her  children  came  about  her,  she  would  look  upon  them 
with  an  emotion  of  yearning  tenderness,  while  her  eyes 
grew  dim  with  tears.  And  then  she  would  look  up,  and 
breathe  a  heart-felt  prayer  that  He  who  tempereth  the 
winds  to  the  shorn  lamb,  would  regard  her  little  ones. 

The  failure  of  her  husband  to  return  at  the  dinner  hour, 
filled  her  with  trembling  anxiety.  Not  once  during  two 
vears  had  he  been  absent  from  home  without  her  being 
33 


270  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

perfectly  aware  of  the  cause.  Its  occurrence  just  at  this 
crisis  was  a  confirmation  of  her  vague  fears,  and  made 
her  sick  at  heart.  Slowly  did  the  afternoon  pass  away, 
and  at  last  the  hour  came  for  his  return  in  the  evening. 
But  though  she  looked  for  his  approaching  form,  and  lis 
tened  for  the  well-known  sound  of  his  footsteps,  he  did 
not  come. 

Anxiety  and  trembling  uncertainty  now  gave  way  to 
an  overwhelming  alarm.  Hurriedly  were  her  children 
put  to  bed,  and  then  she  went  out  to  seek  for  him,  she 
knew  not  whither.  To  the  store  in  which  he  had  become 
a  partner,  she  first  turned  her  steps.  It  was  closed  as  she 
had  feared.  Pausing  for  a  few  moments  to  determine 
where  next  to  proceed,  she  concluded  to  go  to  the  house 
of  his  partner,  and  learn  from  him  if  he  had  been  to  the 
store  that  day,  and  at  what  time.  On  her  way  to  his 
dwelling,  she  passed  down  a  small  street,  in  which  were 
several  drinking-houses,  hid  away  there  to  catch  the 
many  who  are  not  willing  to  be  seen  entering  a  tavern. 

In  approaching  one  of  these,  loud  voices  within,  and 
he  sound  of  a  scuffle,  alarmed  her.  She  was  about 
springing  forward  to  run,  when  the  door  was  suddenly 
thrown  open,  and  a  man  dashed  out,  who  fell  with  a  vio 
lent  concussion  upon  the  pavement,  close  by  her  feet. 
Something  about  his  appearance,  dark  as  it  was,  attracted 
her  eye.  She  stooped  down,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  him. 
It  was  her  husband ! 

A  wild  scream,  that  rung  upon  the  air, — a  scream  which 
the  poor  heart-stricken  creature  could  not  have  controll 
ed  if  her  life  had  been  the  forfeit — brought  instant  assist 
ance.  Marshall  was  taken  into  a  neighbouring  house, 
and  a  physician  called,  who,  on  making  an  examination, 
said  that  a  serious  injury  might,  or  might  not  have  taken 
place  —  he  could  not  tell.  One  thing,  however,  was  cer 
tain,  the  man  was  beastly  drunk. 

O,  with  what  a  chill  did  that  last  sentence  fall  upon  the 
ear  of  his  wife !  It  was  the  death-knell  to  all  the  fond 
hopes  she  had  cherished  for  two  peaceful  years.  For  a 
moment  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  wall  near  which 
she  was  standing,  and  wished  that  she  could  die.  But 
thoughts  of  her  children,  and  thoughts  of  duty  roused 
her. 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  271 

A  carnage  was  procured  and  her  husband  conveyed 
home,  and  then,  after  he  had  been  laid  upon  a  bed,  she 
was  left  alone  with  him,  and  her  own  sad  reflections.  It 
was,  to  her,  a  sleepless  night — but  full  of  waking  dreams, 
whose  images  of  fear  made  her  heart  tremble  and  shrink, 
and  long  for  the  morning. 

Morning  at  last  came.  How  eagerly  did  the  poor 
wife  bend  over  the  still  unconscious  form  of  her  husband, 
reading  each  line  of  his  features,  as  the  pale  light  that 
came  in  at  the  windows  gave  distinctness  to  every  object ! 
He  still  breathed  heavily,  and  there  was  an  expression  of 
pain  on  his  countenance.  A  double  cause  for  anxiety 
and  alarm,  pressed  upon  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Marshall. 
She  knew  not  how  serious  an  injury  his  fall  might  have 
occasioned, — nor  how  utter  might  be  his  abandonment  of 
himself,  now  that  he  had  broken  his  solemn  pledge.  As 
she  bent  over  him  in  doubt,  pain,  and  anxiety,  he  suddenly 
awoke,  and,  without  moving,  looked  her  for  a  moment 
steadily  in  the  face,  with  a  glance  of  earnest  inquiry. 
Then  came  a  distinct  recollection  of  his  violated  pledge ; 
but  all  after  that  was  only  dimly  seen,  or  involved  in  wild 
confusion.  His  bodily  sensations  told  him  but  too  plainly 
how  deep  had  been  his  fall :  and  the  intolerable  desire, 
that  seemed  as  if  it  were  consuming  his  very  vitals,  was 
to  him  a  sad  evidence  that  he  had  fallen,  never,  he  feared, 
to  rise  again.  All  this  passed  through  his  mind  in  a  mo 
ment,  and  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  turned  his  face  away 
from  the  earnest,  and  now  tearful  gaze  of  his  wife. 

"  How  do  you  feel,  Jonas '?"  Mrs.  Marshall  inquired, 
tenderly,  modifying  her  tones,  so  as  not  to  permit  them  to 
convey  to  his  ear  the  exquisite  pain  that  she  felt. 

But  he  made  no  reply. 

"  Say,  dear,  how  do  you  feel  ?"  she  urged,  laying  her 
hand  upon  him,  and  pausing  for  an  answer. 

"  As  if  I  were  in  hell !"  he  shouted,  springing  suddenly 
from  the  bed,  and  beginning  to  dress  himself,  hurriedly. 

"  O,  husband,  do  not  speak  so  !"  Mrs.  Marshall  said,  in 
a  soothing  tone.  "  All  may  be  well  again.  One  sin  need 
not  bring  utter  condemnation.  Let  this  be  the  last,  as  it 
has  been  the  first,  violation  of  your  pledge.  Let  this 
warn  you  against  the  removal  of  that  salutary  restraint, 
which  has  been  as  a  wall  of  fire  aro.ind  you  for  years." 


272  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

"Jane!"  responded  the  irritated  man,  pausing,  and 
looking  at  his  wife,  fixedly,  while  there  sat  upon  his  face 
an  expression  of  terrible  despair ;  "  that  pledge  can  never 
be  renewed!  It  would  be  like  binding  a  giant  with  a 
spider's  web.  I  am  lost !  lost !  lost !  The  eager,  inex 
pressible  desire  that  now  burns  within  me,  cannot  be  con 
trolled.  The  effort  to  do  so  would  drive  me  mad.  I 
must  drink,  or  die.  And  you,  my  poor  wife ! — and  you, 
my  children  !  what  will  become  of  you  ?  Who  will  give 
you  sufficient  strength  to  bear  your  dreadful  lot  ?" 

As  he  said  this,  his  voice  fell  to  a  low  and  mournful, 
despairing  expression — and  he  sunk  into  a  chair,  covering 
his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  Dear  husband !"  urged  his  wife,  coming  to  his  side, 
and  drawing  her  arm  around  his  neck,  "  do  not  thus  give 
way  !  Let  the  love  I  have  ever  borne  you,  and  which  is 
stronger  and  more  tender  at  this  moment  than  it  has  ever 
been  ; — let  the  love  you  feel  for  your  dear  little  ones,  give 
you  strength  to  conquer.  Be  a  man !  Nerve  yourself, 
and  look  upwards  for  strength,  and  you  must  conquer." 

"No  —  no  —  no  —  Jane!"  the  poor  wretch  murmured, 
shaking  his  head,  mournfully.  "Do  not  deceive  your 
heart  by  false  hopes,  for  they  will  all  be  in  vain.  I  can 
not  look  up.  The  heavens  have  become  as  brass  to  me. 
I  have  forfeited  all  claim  to  success  from  above.  As  I 
lifted  the  fatal  glass  to  my  lips,  I  heard  a  voice,  whose 
tones  were  as  distinct  as  yours  — «  Let  us  go  hence  !'  and 
from  that  moment,  I  have  been  weak  and  unsustained  in 
the  hands  of  my  enemies.  I  am  a  doomed  man !" 

As  he  said  this,  a  shrinking  shudder  passed  through  his 
frame,  and  he  groaned  aloud.  The  silence  that  then 
reigned  through  the  chamber  was  as  appalling  as  the 
silence  of  death  to  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Marshall.  It  was 
broken  at  length  by  her  husband,  who  looked  up  with  an 
expression  of  tenderness  in  her  face,  as  she  still  stood 
with  her  hand  upon  him,  and  said — 

"  Jane,  my  dear  wife !  let  me  say  to  you  now,  while  I 
possess  my  full  senses,  which  I  know  not  that  I  ever  shall 
again,  that  you  have  been  true  and  kind  to  me,  and  that 
I  have  ever  loved  you  with  an  earnest  love.  Bear  with 
me  in  my  infirmity ; — if,  amid  the  grief,  and  wrong,  and 
suffering,  which  must  fall  upon  you  and  your  children. 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  273 

you  can  bear  with  the  miserable  cause  of  all  your 
wretchedness.  I  shall  not  long  remain,  I  feel,  to  be  a 
burden  and  a  curse  to  you.  My  downward  course  will 
be  rapid,  and  its  termination  will  soon  come !" 

A  gush  of  tears  followed  this,  and  then  came  a  stern 
silence,  that  chilled  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Marshall.  She 
longed  to  urge  still  further  upon  her  husband  to  make  an 
effort  to  restrain  the  intense  desire  he  felt,  but  could  not. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  seal  upon  her  lips.  Slowly  she 
turned  away  to  attend  to  her  little  ones,  upon  whom  she 
now  looked  with  something  of  that  hopelessness  which 
the  widow  feels,  as  she  turns  from  the  grave  of  her  hus 
band,  and  looks  upon  her  fatherless  children. 

With  a  strong  effort,  Marshall  remained  in  the  house 
until  breakfast  was  on  the  table.  But  he  could  only  sip 
a  little  coffee,  and  soon  arose,  and  lifted  his  hat  to  go  out. 
His  wife  was  by  his  side,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  door. 

"  Jonas,"  she  said,  while  the  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes, 
"  remember  me — remember  your  children  !"  She  could 
say  no  more ;  sobs  choked  her  utterance — and  she  leaned 
her  head,  weak  and  desponding,  upon  his  shoulder. 

Her  husband  made  no  reply,  but  gently  placed  her  in 
a  chair,  kissed  her  cheek,  and  then  turned  hastily  away, 
and  left  the  house. 

It  was  many  minutes  before  Mrs.  Marshall  found 
strength  to  rise,  and  then  she  staggered  across  the  room, 
like  one  who  had  been  stunned  by  a  blow.  We  will  not 
attempt  the  vain  task  of  describing  her  feelings  through 
that  terrible  day ;  —  of  picturing  the  alternate  states  of 
hope  and  deep  despondency,  that  now  made  her  heart 
bound  with  a  lighter  emotion, — and  now  caused  it  to  sink 
low,  and  almost  pulseless,  in  her  bosom.  It  passed  away 
at  last,  and  brought  the  gloomy  night-fall  —  but  not  her 
husband's  return.  Eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven,  and  twelve 
o'clock  came,  and  went,  and  still  he  was  absent. 

For  an  hour  she  had  been  seated  by  the  window,  lis 
tening  for  the  sound  of  his  approaching  footsteps.  As  the 
clock  struck  twelve,  she  started,  listened  for  a  moment 
still  more  intently,  and  then  arose  with  a  deep  sigh,  her 
manner  indicating  a  state  of  irresolution.  First  she  went 
softly  to  the  bed,  and  stood  looking  down  for  some  mo 
ments  upon  the  faces  of  her  little  ones,  sleeping  calmly 


274  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

and  sweetly,  all  unconscious  of  the  anguish  that  swelled 
their  mother's  heart  almost  to  bursting.  Then  she  raised 
her  head,  and  again  assumed  a  listening  attitude.  An 
involuntary  sigh  told  that  she  had  listened  in  vain.  A 
few  moments  after  she  was  aroused  from  a  state  of  deep 
abstraction  of  thought,  by  a  strong  shudder  passing 
through  her  frame,  occasioned  by  some  fearful  picture 
which  her  excited  imagination  had  conjured  up.  She 
now  went  hastily  to  a  wardrobe,  and  took  out  her  bonnet 
and  shawl.  One  more  glance  at  her  children,  told  her 
that  they  were  sleeping  soundly.  In  the  next  minute  she 
was  in  the  street,  bending  her  steps  she  knew  not  whither, 
in  search  of  her  husband. 

Almost  involuntarily,  Mrs.  Marshall  took  her  way 
towards  that  portion  of  the  city  where  she  had,  on  the 
night  previous,  unexpectedly  found  him.  It  was  not  long 
before  she  paused  by  the  door  at  the  same  drinking-house 
from  which  her  husband  had  been  thrust,  when  he  fell, 
almost  lifeless,  at  her  feet.  Although  it  was  past  twelve 
o'clock,  the  sound  of  many  voices  came  from  within, 
mingled  with  wild  excitement,  and  boisterous  mirth. 

Now  came  a  severe  trial  for  her  shrinking,  sensitive 
feelings.  How  could  she,  a  woman,  and  alone,  enter  such 
a  place,  at  such  an  hour,  on  such  an  errand  ?  The  thought 
caused  a  sensation  of  faintness  to  pass  over  her,  and  she 
leaned  for  a  moment  against  the  side  of  the  door  to  keep 
from  falling.  But  affection  and  thoughts  of  duty  quickly 
aroused  her,  and  resolutely  keeping  down  every  weak 
ness,  she  placed  her  hand  upon  the  door,  which  yielded 
readily  to  even  her  light  hand,  and  in  the  next  moment 
found  herself  in  the  presence  of  about  a  dozen  men,  all 
more  or  less  intoxicated.  Their  loud,  insane  mirth  was 
instantly  checked  by  her  entrance.  They  were  all  men 
who  were  in  the  habit  of  mingling  daily  in  good  society, 
and  more  than  one  of  them  knew  Marshall,  and  instantly 
recognised  his  wife.  No  rudeness  was,  of  course,  offered 
her.  On  the  contrary,  two  or  three  came  forward,  and 
kindly  inquired,  though  they  guessed  too  well,  her  errand 
there  at  such  an  hour. 

"  Has  my  husband  been  here  to-night,  Mr. ?"  she 

asked,  in  a  choking  voice,  of  one  whose  countenance  she 
instantly  recognised. 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  275 

«'  I  have  not  met  with  him,  Mrs.  Marshall,"  was  the 
reply,  in  a  kind,  sympathizing  tone,  "  but  I  will  inquire  if 
any  one  here  has  seen  him." 

These  inquiries  were  made,  and  then  Mr. came 

forward  again,  and  said,  in  a  low  tone, 

"  Come  with  me,  Mrs.  Marshall." 

As  the  two  emerged  into  the  street,  Mr said, 

"  I  would  not,  if  I  were  you,  madam,  attempt  to  look 
further  for  your  husband.  I  have  just  learned  that  he  is 
safe  and  well,  only  a  little  overcome,  by  having,  acci 
dentally,  I  have  no  doubt,  drunken  a  little  too  freely.  In 
the  morning  he  will  come  home,  and  all  will,  I  trust,  be 
right  again."  • 

"  What  you  say,  I  know,  is  meant  in  kindness,  Mr. ," 

Mrs.  Marshall  replied,  in  a  firmer  tone,  the  assurance  that 
her  husband  was  at  least  safe  from  external  danger,  being 
some  relief  to  her,  "  but  I  would  rather  see  my  husband, 
and  have  him  taken  home.  Home  is  the  best  place  for 
him,  under  any  circumstances — and  I  am  the  most  fitting 
one  to  attend  to  him.  Will  you,  then,  do  me  the  favour 
to  procure  a  hack,  and  go  with  me  to  the  place  where 
he  is  to  be  found?" 

Mr. saw  that  in  the  manner  and  tone  of  Mrs. 

Marshall  which  made  him  at  once  resolve  to  do  as  she 
wished  him.  The  hack  was  procured,  into  which  both 
entered.  Directions  were  given,  in  a  low  tone,  to  the 
driver,  and  then  they  rattled  away  over  the  resounding 
pavement,  for  a  space  of  time  that  seemed  very  long  to 
the  anxious  wife.  At  last  the  hack  stopped,  the  door 
was  opened,  and  the  steps  thrown  down.  When  Mrs. 
Marshall  descended,  she  found  herself  in  a  narrow,  dark 
street,  before  a  low,  dirty-looking  tavern,  the  windows 
and  doors  of  which  had  been  closed  for  the  night. 

While  Mr. was  knocking  loudly  for  admission, 

her  eyes,  growing  familiar  with  the  darkness,  saw  some 
thing  lying  partly  upon  the  street  arid  partly  upon  the 
pavement  a  few  yards  from  her,  that  grew  more  and 
more  distinct,  the  more  intently  she  looked  at  it.  Ad 
vancing  a  few  steps,  she  saw  that  it  was  the  body  of  a 
man, — a  few  paces  further,  revealed  to  her  eyes  the  form 
of  her  husband.  An  exclamation  of  surprise  and  alarm 
brought  both  Mr. and  the  hack-driver  to  her  side. 


276  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

In  attempting  to  raise  Marshall  to  his  feet,  he  groaned 
neavily,  and  writhed  with  a  sensation  of  pain.  Some 
thing  dark  upon  the  pavement  attracted  the  eye  of  his 
wife.  She  touched  it  with  her  hand,  to  which  it  adhered, 
with  a  moist,  oily  feeling.  Hurrying  to  the  lamp  in  front 
of  the  hack,  with  a  feeling  of  sudden  alarm,  she  lifted  her 
hand  so  that  the  light  could  fall  upon  it.  It  was  covered 
with  blood ! 

With  a  strong  effort,  she  kept  down  the  sudden  impulse 
that  she  felt  to  utter  a  wild  scream,  and  went  back  to 

Mr. and  communicated  to  him  the  alarming  fact  she 

had  discovered.  Marshall  was  at  once  laid  gently  down 
upon  the  pavement,  and  a  light  procured,  which  showed 
that  his  pantaloons,  above,  below,  and  around  the  knees, 
were  saturated  with  blood. 

"  O,  Mr. !  what  can  be  the  matter  ?"  Mrs.  Mar 
shall  said,  in  husky  tones,  looking  up,  with  a  face  blanch 
ed  to  an  ashy  paleness. 

"  Some  passing  vehicle  has,  no  doubt,  run  over  him  — 
but  I  trust  that  he  is  not  much  hurt.  Remain  here  with 
him,  until  I  can  procure  assistance,  and  have  him  taken 
home." 

"  O,  sir,  go  quickly  !"  the  poor  wife  replied,  in  earnest 
tones. 

In  a  short  time,  four  men,  with  a  litter,  were  procured, 
upon  which  Marshall,  now  groaning,  as  if  acutely  con 
scious  of  pain,  was  placed,  and  slowly  conveyed  home. 
A  surgeon  reached  the  house  as  soon  as  the  party  accom 
panying  the  injured  man.  An  examination  showed  that 
his  legs  had  been  broken  just  above  the  knees.  And  one 
of  them  had  the  flesh  dreadfully  torn  and  bruised,  and 
both  were  crushed  as  if  run  over  by  some  heavy  vehicle. 
A  still  further  examination  showed  the  fracture  to  be 
compound,  and  extensive ;  but,  fortunately,  the  knee  joint 
had  entirely  escaped.  Already  the  limbs  had  swollen 
very  considerably,  exhibiting  a  rapidly  increasing  inflam 
mation.  This  was  a  natural  result  flowing  from  the  large 
quantity  of  alcohol  which  he  had  evidently  been  taking 
through  the  day  and  evening. 

Fortunately,  notwithstanding  the  morbid  condition  of 
his  body,  and  the  nature  and  extent  of  the  injury  he  had 
sustained,  the  vital  system  of  Marshall,  unexhausted  by  a 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  277 

long-continued  series  of  physical  abuse  from  drinking, 
rallied  strongly  against  the  violent  inflammation  that  fol 
lowed  the  setting  of  the  bones,  and  dressing  of  the  wounds, 
and  threw  off  the  too  apparent  tendency  to  mortification 
that  continued,  much  to  the  anxiety  of  the  surgeon,  for 
many  days.  During  this  time,  he  suffered  almost  inces 
sant  pain — frequently  of  an  excruciating  character.  The 
severity  of  this  pain  entirely  destroyed  all  desire  for  in 
toxicating  drink.  This  desire,  however,  gradually  began 
to  return,  as  the  pain,  which  accompanied  the  knitting  of 
the  bones,  subsided.  But  he  did  not  venture  to  ask  for  it, 
*and,  of  course,  it  was  not  offered  to  him. 

With  the  most  earnest  attentions,  and  the  tenderest 
solicitude,  did  Mrs.  Marshall  wait  and  watch  by  the  bed 
side  of  her  husband,  both  day  and  night,  wearing  down 
her  own  strength,  and  neglecting  her  children. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks,  he  had  so  far  recovered,  as 
to  be  able  to  sit  up,  and  to  bear  a  portion  of  his  weight. 
As  fear  for  the  consequences  of  the  injury  her  husband 
had  received,  began  to  fade  from  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Mar 
shall,  another  fear  took  possession  of  it  —  a  heart-sicken 
ing  fear,  under  which  her  spirit  grew  faint.  There  was 
no  pledge  to  bind  him,  and  his  newly-awakened  desire  for 
liquor,  she  felt  sure  would  bear  him  away  inevitably,  not 
withstanding  the  dreadful  lesson  he  had  received. 

About  this  time,  however,  two  or  three  of  his  temper 
ance  friends,  who  had  heard  of  his  fall,  came  to  see  him. 
This  encouraged  her,  especially  as  they  soon  began  to 
urge  him  again  to  sign  the  pledge ;  —  but  he  would  not 
consent. 

"  It  is  useless,"  was  his  steady  reply,  to  all  importuni 
ties,  and  made  usually,  in  a  mournful  tone,  "  for  me  to 
sign  another  pledge.  Having  broken  one,  wilfully  and 
deliberately,  I  have  no  power  to  keep  another.  I  am 
conscious  of  this — and,  therefore,  am  resolved  not  to  stain 
my  soul  with  another  sin." 

"  But  you  can  keep  it.  I  am  sure  you  can,"  one  friend, 
more  importunate  than  the  rest,  would  repeatedly  urge 
"You  broke  your  first  pledge,  deliberately,  because  you 
believed  that  you  were  freed  from  the  old  desire,  even  in 
a  latent  form.  Satisfied,  from  painful  experience,  that  this 
34 


278  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

is  not  the  case,  you  will  not  again  try  so  dangerous  an 
experiment." 

But  Marshall  would  shake  his  head,  sadly,  in  rejection 
of  all  arguments  and  persuasions. 

"  It  may  all  seem  easy  enough  for  you,"  he  would  some 
times  say,  "  who  have  never  broken  a  solemn  pledge ;  but 
you  know  not  how  utter  a  destruction  of  internal  moral 
power  such  an  act,  deliberately  done,  effects.  I  am 
not  the  man  I  was,  before  I  so  wickedly  violated  that 
solemn  compact  made  between  myself  and  heaven  —  for 
so  I  now  look  upon  it.  While  I  kept  my  pledge,  I  had 
the  sustaining  power  of  heaven  to  bear  me  safely  up 
against  all  temptations;  —  but  since  the  very  moment  it 
.  was  broken,  I  have  had  nothing  but  my  own  strength  to 
lean  upon,  and  that  has  proved  to  be  no  better  than  a 
broken  reed,  piercing  me  through  with  many  sorrows." 

To  such  declarations,  in  answer  to  arguments,  and 
sometimes  earnest  entreaties  made  by  his  friends  to  in 
duce  him  to  renew  his  pledge,  Mrs.  Marshall  would  listen 
in  silence,  but  with  a  sinking,  sickening  sensation  of  mind 
and  body.  All  and  more  than  she  could  say,  was  said  to 
him,  but  he  resisted  every  appeal  —  and  what  good  could 
her  weak  persuasions  and  feeble  admonitions  do  ? 

Day  after  day  passed  on,  and  Marshall  gradually  gain 
ed  more  use  of  his  limbs.  In  six  weeks,  he  could  walk 
without  the  aid  of  his  crutches. 

"  I  think  I  must  try  and  get  down  to  the  store  to-mor 
row,"  he  said,  to  his  wife,  about  this  time.  "  This  is  a 
busy  season,  and  I  can  be  of  some  use  there  for  two  or 
three  hours,  every  day." 

"  I  don't  think  I  would  venture  out  yet,"  Mrs.  Marshall 
said,  looking  at  him,  with  an  anxious,  troubled  expression 
of  countenance,  that  she  tried  in  vain  to  conceal. 

"  Why  not,  Jane  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  you  are  strong  enough,  dear." 

"  O,  yes,  I  am.  And,  besides,  it  will  do  me  good  to  go 
out  and  take  the  fresh  air.  You  know  that  it  is  now  six 
weeks  since  I  have  been  outside  of  the  front  door." 

"  I  know  it  has.     But " 

"  But  what,  Jane  ?" 

"  You  know  what  I  would  say,  Jonas.  You  know  the 
terrible  fear  that  rests  upon  my  heart  like  a  night-mare." 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  279 

And  Mrs.  Marshall  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  gave  way  to  tears. 

A  long  silence  followed  this.  At  length  Marshall 
said, 

"  I  hope,  Jane,  that  I  shall  be  able  to  restrain  myself. 
I  am,  at  least,  resolved  to  try." 

"  O,  husband,  if  you  will  only  try !"  Mrs.  Marshall 
ejaculated  eagerly,  lifting  her  tearful  eyes,  and  looking 
him  with  an  appealing  expression  in  the  face  —  "  If  you 
will  only  try !" 

"  I  will  try,  Jane.  But  do  not  feel  too  much  confidence 
in  my  effort.  I  am  weak — so  weak  that  I  tremble  when 
I  think  of  it — and  remember  what  an  almost  irresistible 
influence  I  have  to  contend  with." 

"Why  not  take  the  pledge,  again,  Jonas?"  said  his 
wife,  for  the  first  time  she  had  urged  that  recourse  upon 
him. 

"  You  have  heard  my  reasons  given  for  that,  over  and 
over  again." 

"  I  know  I  have.     But  they  never  satisfied  me." 

"  You  would  not  have  me  add  the  sin  of  a  double  vio 
lation  of  a  solemn  pledge  to  my  already  overburdened 
conscience  ?" 

"  No,  Jonas.     Heaven  forbid  !" 

"  The  fear  of  that  restrains  me.  I  dare  not  again 
take  it." 

"  Do  you  not  deeply  repent  of  your  first  violation  ?"  the 
wife  asked,  after  a  few  moments  of  earnest  thought. 

"Heaven  knows  how  deeply." 

"  And  Heaven,  that  perceives  and  knows  the  depth  and 
sincerity  of  that  repentance,  accepts  it  according  to  its 
quality.  And  just  so  far  as  Heaven  accepts  the  sincere 
offering  of  a  repentant  heart,  conscious  of  its  own  weak 
ness,  and  mourning  over  its  derelictions,  is  strength  given 
for  combat  in  future  temptations.  The  bruised  reed  he 
will  not  break,  nor  quench  the  smoking  flax.  Hope,  then, 
dear  husband  !  you  are  not  cast  off —  you  are  not  reject 
ed  by  Heaven." 

"  O,  Jane,  if  I  could  feel  the  truth  of  what  you  say, 
how  happy  I  should  be!  —  For  the  idea  of  sinking  again 
into  that  hopeless,  abandoned,  wretched  condition,  out  of 
which  this  severe  affliction  has  lifted  me,  as  by  the  hair 


280  THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE. 

of  the  head,  is  appalling !"  was  the  reply,  to  his  wife's 
earnest  appeal. 

"  Trust  me,  dear  husband,  —  there  is  truth  in  what  I 
say.  He  who  came  down  to  man's  lowest,  and  almost 
lost  condition,  that  he  might  raise  him  up,  and  sustain  him 
against  the  assaults  of  his  worst  enemies,  has  felt  in  his 
own  body  all  the  temptations  that  ever  can  assail  his  chil 
dren,  and  not  only  felt  them,  but  successfully  resisted  and 
conquered  them ;  so  that,  there  is  no  state,  however  low, 
in  which  there  is  an  earnest  desire  to  rise  out  of  evil,  to 
which  he  does  not  again  come  down,  and  in  which  he 
does  not  again  successfully  contend  with  the  powers  of 
darkness.  Look  to  Him,  then,  again,  in  a  fixed  resolution 
to  put  away  the  evils  into  which  you  have  fallen,  and  you 
must,  you  will  be  sustained  !" 

"  O,  if  I  could  but  believe  this,  how  eagerly  would  I 
again  fly  to  the  pledge !"  Marshall  said,  in  an  earnest 
voice. 

"  Fly  to  it  then,  Jonas,  as  to  a  city  of  refuge ;  for  it  is 
true.  You  have  felt  the  power  of  the  pledge  once — try  it 
again.  It  will  be  strength  to  you  in  your  weakness,  as  it 
has  been  before." 

Still  Marshall  hesitated.  While  he  did  so,  his  wife 
brought  him  pens,  ink  and  paper. 

"  Write  a  pledge  and  sign  it,  dear  husband  !"  she  urged, 
as  she  placed  them  before  him.  "  Think  of  me — of  the 
joy  that  it  will  bring  to  my  heart — and  sign."^ 

"  I  am  afraid,  Jane." 

"  Can  you  stand  alone  ?" 

"  I  fear  not." 

"  Are  you  not  sure,  that  the  pledge  will  restrain  you 
some  ?" 

"  O,  yes.  If  I  ever  take  it  again,  I  shall  tremble  under 
the  fearful  responsibility  that  rests  upon  me." 

"  Corne  with  me,  a  moment,"  Mrs.  Marshall  said,  after 
a  thoughtful  pause. 

Her  husband  followed,  as  she  led  the  way  to  an  adjoin 
ing  room,  where  two  or  three  bright-eyed  children  were 
playing  in  the  happiest  mood. 

"  For  their  sakes,  if  not  for  mine,  Jonas,  sign  the  pledge 
again,"  she  said,  while  her  voice  trembled,  and  then  became 
choked,  as  she  leaned  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 


THE     BROKEN     PLEDGE.  281 

'« You  have  conquered !  I  will  sign !"  he  whispered  in 
her  ear. 

Eagerly  she  lifted  her  head,  and  looked  into  his  face 
with  a  glance  of  wild  delight. 

"  O,  how  happy  this  poor  heart  will  again  be !"  she 
ejaculated,  clasping  her  hands  together,  and  looking  up 
wards  with  a  joyous  smile. 

In  a  few  minutes,  a  pledge  of  total  abstinence  from  all 
kinds  of  intoxicating  drinks,  was  written  out  and  signed. 
While  her  husband  was  engaged  in  doing  this,  Mrs.  Mar 
shall  stood  looking  down  upon  each  letter  as  it  was  formed 
by  his  pen,  eager  to  see  his  name  subscribed.  When  that 
was  finally  done,  she  leaned  forward  on  the  table  at  which 
he  wrote,  swayed  to  and  fro  for  a  moment  or  two,  and 
then  sank  down  upon  the  floor,  lost  to  all  consciousness 
of  external  things. 

From  that  hour  to  this,  Jonas  Marshall  has  been  as  true 
to  his  second  pledge,  even  in  thought,  as  the  needle  to  the 
pole.  So  dreadful  seems  the  idea  of  its  violation,  that  the 
bare  recollection  of  his  former  dereliction,  makes  him 
tremble. 

"  It  was  a  severe  remedy,"  he  says,  sometimes,  in 
regard  to  his  broken  legs ;  "  and  proved  eminently  suc 
cessful.  But  for  that,  I  should  have  been  utterly  lost." 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

A  THANKSGIVING  STORY. 


A  MAN,  who  at  first  sight,  a  casual  observer  would  have 
thought  at  least  forty  or  fifty  years  of  age,  came  creeping 
out  of  an  old,  miserable-looking  tenement  in  the  lower  part 
of  Cincinnati,  a  little  while  after  night-fall,  and,  with  bent 
body  and  shuffling  gait,  crossed  the  street  an  angle  ;  and, 
after  pausing  for  a  few  moments  before  a  mean  frame  build 
ing,  in  the  windows  of  which  decanters  of  liquor  were 
temptingly  displayed,  pushed  open  the  door  and  entered. 

It  was  early  in  November.  Already  the  leaves  had 
fallen,  and  there  was,  in  the  aspect  of  nature,  a  desolate- 
ness  that  mirrored  itself  in  the  feelings.  Night  had  come, 
hiding  all  this,  yet  by  no  means  obliterating  the  impression 
which  had  been  made,  but  measurably  increasing  it ;  for, 
with  the  darkness  had  begun  to  fall  a  misty  rain,  and  the 
rising  wrnd  moaned  sadly  among  the  eaves. 

A  short  time  after  sundown  the  man,  to  whom  we  have 
just  referred,  came  home  to  the  comfortless-looking  house 
we  have  seen  him  leaving.  All  day  he  had  turned  a  wheel 
in  a  small  manufactory ;  and  when  his  work  was  done,  he 
left,  what  to  him  was  a  prison-house,  and  retired  to  the 
cheap  but  wretched  boarding-place  he  had  chosen,  where 
were  congregated  about  a  dozen  men  of  the  lowest  class. 
He  did  not  feel  happy.  That  was  impossible.  No  one 
who  debases  himself  by  intemperance  can  be  happy ;  and 
this  man  had  gone  down,  step  by  step,  until  he  attained  a 
depth  of  degradation  most  sad  to  contemplate.  And  yet  he 
was  not  thirty  years  old !  After  supper  he  went  out,  as 
usual,  to  spend  the  evening  in  drinking. 

The  man,  fallen  as  he  was,  and  lost  to  all  the  higher  and 

nobler  sentiments  of  the  heart,  had  experienced  during  the 

day  a  pressure  upon  his  feelings  heavier  than  usual,  that 

had  its  origin  in  some  reviving  memories  of  earlier  times. 

282 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.      283 

The  sound  of  his  mother's  voice  had  been  in  his  ears  fre 
quently  through  the  day ;  and  images  of  persons,  places, 
and  scenes,  the  remembrance  of  which  brought  no  joy  to 
his  heart,  had  many  times  come  up  before  him.  At  the 
supper-table,  amid  his  coarse,  vulgar-minded  companions, 
his  laugh  was  not  heard  as  usual ;  and,  when  spoken  to, 
he  answered  briefly  and  in  monosyllables. 

The  tippling-house  to  which  the  man  went  to  spend  his 
day's  earnings  and  debase  himself  with  drink,  was  one  of 
the  lowest  haunts  of  vice  in  the  city.  Gambling  with  cards, 
dominoes,  and  dice,  occupied  the  time  of  the  greater  number 
who  made  it  a  place  of  resort,  and  little  was  heard  there 
except  language  the  most  obscene  and  profane. '  For  his 
daily  task  at  the  wheel,  the  man  was  paid  seventy-five 
cents  a  day.  His  boarding  and  lodging  cost  him  thirty-one 
and  a  quarter  cents, — and  this  had  to  be  paid  every  night 
under  penalty  of  being  expelled  from  the  house.  He  was  a 
degraded  drunkard,  and  not  therefore  worthy  of  confidence 
nor  credit  beyond  a  single  day,  and  he  received  none.  What 
remained  of  the  pittance  earned,  was  invariably  spent  in 
drink,  or  gambled  away  before  he  retired  from  the  grog 
shop  for  the  night ;  when,  staggering  home,  he  groped  his 
way  to  his  room,  too  helpless  to  remove  his  clothes,  and 
threw  himself  upon  a  straw  pallet,  that  could  scarcely  be 
dignified  with  the  name  of  bed.  This  in  outline,  was 
the  daily  history  of  the  man's  life ;  and  daily  the  shadows 
of  vice  fell  more  and  more  darkly  upon  his  path. 

The  drinking-house  had  two  rooms  on  the  first  floor.  In 
front  was  a  narrow  counter,  six  or  eight  feet  in  length,  and 
behind  this  stood  a  short,  bloated,  vice-disfigured  image  of 
humanity,  ready  to  supply  the  wants  of  customers.  Two 
or  three  roughly-made  pine  tables,  and  some  chairs,  stood 
around  the  room.  The  back  apartment  contained  simply 
chairs  and  tables,  and  was  generally  occupied  by  parties 
engaged  in  games  of  chance,  for  small  sums.  Tobacco- 
smoke,  the  fumes  of  liquor,  and  the  polluted  breaths  of  the 
inmates,  made  the  atmosphere  of  these  rooms  so  offensive, 
that  none  but  those  who  had  become  accustomed  to  inhale 
it,  could  have  endured  to  remain  there  for  a  minute. 

The  man,  on  entering  this  den  of  vice,  went  to  the 
counter  and  called  for  whisky.  A  decanter  was  set  before 
him,  and  from  this  he  poured  into  a  glass  nearly  a  gill  of 


284        THE     WANDERER'S    RETURN. 

the  vilest  kind  of  stuffand  drank  it  off,  undiluted.  About  half 
the  quantity  of  water  was  sent  down  after  the  burning  fluid, 
to  partially  subdue  its  ardent  qualities ;  and  then  the  man 
turned  slowly  from  the  bar.  As  he  did  so,  an  individual 
who  had  seen  him  enter,  and  who  had  kept  his  eyes  upon 
him  from  the  moment  he  passed  through  the  door,  came 
towards  him  with  a  smile  of  pleasure  upon  his  countenance, 
and  reaching  out  his  hand,  said,  in  an  animated  voice — 

"  How  are  you,  Martin,  my  good  fellow !  How  are 
you  ?" 

And  he  grasped  the  poor  wretch's  hand  with  a  hearty 
grip  and  shook  it  warmly.  Something  like  a  smile  lighted 
up  the  marred  and  almost  expressionless  face  of  the  miser 
able  creature,  as  he  gave  to  the  hand  that  had  taken  his  a 
responsive  pressure,  and  replied, 

"  Oh!  very  well,  very  well,  considering  all  things." 

"Bad  night  out,"  said  the  man,  as  he  sat  down  near  a 
stove,  that  was  sending  forth  a  genial  heat. 

"Yes,  bad  enough,"  returned  Martin.  A  thought  of  the 
damp  and  chilly  air  without  caused  him  to  shiver  suddenly, 
and  draw  a  little  nearer  to  the  stove. 

"  Which  makes  us  prize  a  comfortable  place  like  this, 
where  we  can  spend  a  pleasant  evening  among  pleasant 
friends,  so  much  the  more." 

"  Yes.  It's  very  pleasant,"  said  Martin,  spreading  him 
self  out  before  the  stove,  with  a  hand  upon  each  knee,  and 
looking  with  an  absent-minded  air,  through  the  opening  in 
the  door,  which  had  once  been  closed  by  a  thin  plate  of 
mica,  and  seeing  strange  forms  in  the  glowing  coals. 

"  Pleasant  after  a  hard  day's  work,"  remarked  the  man, 
with  an  insinuating  air. 

"  I  don't  know  what  life  would  be  worth,  if  seasons  of 
recreation  and  social  intercourse  did  not  come,  nightly,  to 
relieve  both  body  and  mind  from  their  wearisomeness  and 
exhaustion." 

"  Yes — yes.  It's  tiresome  enough  to  have  to  sit  and 
turn  a  wheel  all  day,"  said  Martin. 

"  And  a  relief  to  get  into  a  place  like  this  at  night,"  re 
turned  the  man,  rubbing  his  hands  with  animation. 

"  It's  a  great  deal  better  than  sitting  at  the  wheel,"  sighed 
Martin. 

"  I  should  think  it  was !     Come !  won't  you  liquor. 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.   285 

"  Thank  you  !  I've  just  taken  something." 

"  No  matter.  Come  along,  my  good  fellow,  and  try 
something  more."  And  he  arose,  as  he  spoke,  and  moved 
towards  the  bar. 

Martin  was  not  the  man  to  refuse  a  drink  at  any  time,  so 
he  followed  to  the  counter. 

"  What'll  you  take  ?  Whisky,  rum,  gin,  brandy,  or 
spirits  ?  Any  thing,  so  it's  strong  enough  to  drink  to  old 
acquaintanceship.  Ha!  my  boy?"  And  he  leered  in 
Martin's  face  with  a  sinister  expression,  and  slapped  him 
familiarly  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Brandy,"  said  Martin. 

"Brandy  let  it  be!  Nothing  like  brandy!  Set  out 
your  pure  old  Cogniac  !  Toby.  A  drink  for  the  gods  !" 

"  Prime  stuff!  that.  It  warms  you  to  the  very  soles  of 
your  feet!"  added  the  man  after  he  had  turned  off  his 
glass.  "  Don't  you  say  so,  Martin  ?" 

"  Yes !  and  through  your  stockings  to  your  very  shoes !" 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  He!  he!"  laughed  the  man  with 
a  forced  effort.  "  Why,  Bill  Martin,  you're  a  wit!" 

"It  ain't  Bill,  it's  the  brandy,"  said  the  bar-keeper,  with 
more  truth  than  jest. 

"  That  brandy  would  put  life  into  a  grindstone  !" 

"  It's  put  life  into  our  friend  here,  without  doubt."  And 
as  the  very  disinterested  companion  of  Martin  said  this,  he 
slapped  him  again  upon  the  shoulder. 

The  two  men  turned  from  the  bar  and  sat  down  again  by 
the  stove,  both  getting  more  and  more  familiar  and  chatty." 

"  Suppose  we  try  a  game  of  dominoes  or  chequers?"  at' 
length  suggested  the  friend. 

"  No  objection,"  replied  Martin.  "  Any  thing  to  make 
the  time  pass  agreeably.  Suppose  we  say  chequers  ?" 

"  Very  well.  Here's  a  board.  We'll  go  into  the  back 
room  where  it's  more  quiet." 

The  two  men  retired  into  the  little  den  in  the  rear  of  the 
bar-room,  where  were  several  parties  engaged  at  cards  or 
dice. 

"  Here's  a  cozy  little  corner,"  said  the  pleasant  friend  of 
Martin.  "  We  can  be  as  quiet  as  kittens." 

"  What's  the  stake  ?"  he  next  inquired,  as  soon  as  the 
board  was  opened  and  the  pieces  distributed.  "  Shall  we 
say  a  bit  ?" 

35 


286       THE   WANDERER'S    RETURN. 

Martin  received,  at  the  close  of  each  day,  his  earnings. 
Of  his  seventy-five  cents,  he  had  already  paid  out  for 
board  thirty- one  and  a  quarter  cents ;  and  for  a  glass  of 
liquor  and  some  tobacco,  six  cents  more.  So  he  had  but 
thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents.-  This  sum  he  drew  from  his 
pocket,  and  counted  over  with  scrupulous  accuracy,  so  as 
to  be  sure  of  the  amount.  While  he  was  doing  so,  his 
companion's  eyes  were  fixed  eagerly  upon  the  small  coins 
in  his  hands,  in  order,  likewise,  to  ascertain  their  sum. 

"A  bit  let  it  be."  And  the  man  laid  down  a  twelve- 
and-a-half-cent  piece. 

"  No  !  We'll  start  with  a  picayune,"  said  Martin,  select 
ing  the  smaller  coin  and  placing  it  on  the  table. 

"  That's  too  trifling.  Say  a  bit,"  returned  the  man,  but 
half  concealing  the  eager  impatience  he  felt  to  get  hold  of 
the  poor  wretch's  money. 

"  Well,  I  don't  care !  Call  it  a  bit,  then,"  said  Martin. 
And  the  coin  was  staked. 

An  observer  would  have  been  struck  with  the  change 
that  now  came  over  Martin.  His  dull  eyes  brightened  ; 
something  like  light  came  flashing  into  his  almost  expres 
sionless  face,  and  his  lips  arched  with  the  influx  of  new 
life  and  feeling.  He  moved  his  pieces  on  the  board  with 
the  promptness  and  skill  of  one  accustomed  to  the  game, 
and,  though  he  played  with  an  opponent  whose  clearer 
head  gave  him  an  advantage,  he  yet  held  his  own  with 
remarkable  pertinacity,  and  was  not  beaten  until  after  a  long 
and  well-balanced  struggle.  But  beaten  he  was ;  and  one- 
third  of  all  he  possessed  in  the  world  passed  from  his  hand. 

Another  twelve-and-a-half-cent  piece  was  staked,  and, 
in  like  manner,  lost. 

"  I  can't  go  but  a  picayune  this  time,"  said  Martin,  \vhen 
the  pieces  were  arranged  for  the  third  game.  "  My  funds 
are  getting  too  low." 

"  Very  well,  a  picayune  let  it  be.  Any  thing  just  to 
give  a  little  interest  to  the  game.  I'm  sure  you'll  win  this 
time." 

And  win  Martin  did.  This  elated  him.  He  played 
another  game  and  lost.  The  next  was  no  more  successful. 
Only  a  single  picayune  now  remained.  For  a  short  time 
he  hesitated  about  risking  this.  Ha  wanted  more  liquor ; 
and,  if  he  lost,  there  would  be  no  means  left  to  gratify  the 


THE   WANDERER'S  RETURN.       287 

ever  burning  thirst  that  consumed  him.  Not  until  the 
close  of  the  next  day  would  he  receive  any  money ;  and , 
without  money,  he  could  get  nothing.  There  were  unpaid 
scores  against  him  in  a  dozen  shops. 

"Try  again.  Don't  be  afraid.  You're  a  better  player 
than  I  am.  You'll  be  sure  to  win.  Luck  lies  in  the  last 
sixpence.  Don't  you  know  that  ?" 

Thus  urged,  Martin  put  down  the  last  small  remnant  of 
his  day's  earnings.  The  interest  taken  in  the  games  had 
nearly  counteracted  the  effects  of  the  liquor,  and  he  was, 
therefore,  able  to  play  with  a  skill  nearly  equal  to  that  of 
his  companion.  Slowly  and  thoughtfully  he  made  hiai 
moves,  and  calculated  the  effect  of  every  change  in  the 
board  with  as  much  intelligence  as  it  was  possible  for  him 
to  summon  to  his  aid.  But  luck,  so  called,  was  against 
him.  His  three  last  pieces,  kings,  were  swept  from  the 
board  by  a  single  play  of  his  adversary,  at  a  moment  when 
he  believed  himself  sure  of  the  game.  A  bitter  impreca 
tion  fell  from  his  lips,  as  he  turned  from  the  table,  and 
thrusting  his  hands  nearly  to  his  elbows  in  his  pockets, 
stalked  into  the  bar-room,  leaving  the  man  who  had  won 
from  him  the  remnant  of  his  day's  earnings  for  the  twentieth 
time,  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  success.  This  man  was  too 
much  occupied  in  kind  attentions  to  others  who  were  to  be 
his  victims,  to  even  see  Martin  again  during  the  evening. 

After  having  lost  his  last  farthing,  the  latter,  feeling- 
miserable  enough,  sat  down  at  a  table  on  which  were  three 
or  four  newspapers,  and  tried  to  find  in  them  something  to 
interest  his  mind.  He  was  nearer  to  being  sober  than  he 
had  been  for  many  weeks.  On  the  night  before,  he  had 
gambled  away  his  last  penny,  and  the  consequence  was, 
that  he  had  been  obliged  to  do  without  liquor  all  day.  The 
effects  of  the  two  glasses  he  had  taken  since  nightfall  had 
been  almost  -entirely  obliterated  by  the  excitement  of  the 
petty  struggle  through  which  he  had  passed,  and  his  mind 
was,  therefore,  in  a  more  that  usually  disturbed  state.  The 
day  had  been  one  of  troubled  feelings,  and  the  night  found 
him  less  happy  than  he  had  been  through  the  day. 

As  he  ran  his  eye  over  the  newspaper  he  was  trying  to 
read,  pausing  now  and  then  at  a  paragraph,  and  seeking  to 
find  in  it  something  of  interest,  the  words,  "  Thanksgiving 
in  Massachusetts,"  arrested  his  attention.  He  read  over  the 


288      THE   WANDERER'S    RETURN. 

few  lines  that  followed  this  heading.  They  were  a  simple 
statement  of  the  fact,  that  a  certain  day  in  November  had 
been  appointed  as  a  thanksgiving  day  by  the  Governor  of 
Massachusetts,  followed  by  these  brief  remarks  by  some 
editor  who  had  recorded  the  fact : — "  How  many  look  for 
ward  to  this  day  as  a  time  of  joyful  re-union!  And  such  it 
is  to  thousands  of  happy  families.  But,  somehow,  we  al 
ways  think  of  the  vacant  places  that  death  or  absence  leaves 
at  many  tables ;  and  of  the  shadows  that  come  over  the 
feelings  of  those  who  gather  in  the  old  homestead.  Of  the 
absent,  how  many  are  wanderers,  like  the  poor  prodigal ! 
And  how  gladly  would  they  be  received  if  they  would  only 
return,  and  let  all  the  unhappy  past  be  forgotten  and  for 
given  !  Does,  by  any  chance,  such  a  wanderer's  eye  fall 
upon  these  few  sentences  ?  If  so,  we  do  earnestly  and 
tenderly  entreat  him,  by  the  love  of  his  mother,  that  is 
still  with  him,  no  matter  how  far  he  has  gone  from  the  right 
path,  to  come  back  on  this  blessed  day ;  and  thus  make  the 
thanksgiving  of  that  mother's  heart  complete." 

Every  word  of  this  appeal,  which  seemed  as  if  it  were 
addressed  directly  to  himself,  touched  a  responsive  feeling 
in  the  bosom  of  Martin.  One  after  another,  images  of  other 
days  passed  before  him — innocent,  happy  days.  His  mo 
ther's  face,  his  mother's  voice,  her  very  words  were  present 
with  unwonted  vividness.  Then  came  the  recollection  of 
blessed  re-unions  on  the  annual  Thanksgiving  festival. 
The  rush  of  returning  memories  was  too  strong  for  the  poor, 
weak,  depressed  wanderer  from  home  and  happiness.  He 
felt  the  waters  of  repentance  gathering  in  his  eyes  ;  and  he 
drew  his  hand  suddenly  across  them,  with  an  instinctive 
effort  to  check  their  flow.  But  a  fountain,  long  sealed,  had 
been  touched ;  and,  ere  he  was  more  than  half  aware  of 
the  tendency  of  his  feelings,  a  tear  came  forth  and  rested  on 
his  cheek.  It  was  brushed  away  quickly.  Another  fol 
lowed,  and  another.  The  man  had  lost  his  self-control. 
Into  one  of  the  lowest  haunts  of  vice  and  dissipation  the 
voice  of  his  mother  had  come,  speaking  to  him  words  of 
hope.  Even  here  had  her  image  followed  him,  and  he  saw 
her  with  the  old  smile  of  love  upon  her  face.  And  he  saw 
the  smile  give  way  to  looks  of  sorrow,  and  heard  the  voice 
saying,  in  tones  of  the  tenderest  entreaty,  "  William !  my 
poor  wanderer !  come  home !  Come  home  !" 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.   289 

Oh  !  with  what  deep,  heart-aching  sincerity  did  the  poor 
wretch  wish  that  he  had  never  turned  aside  into  the  ways 
of  folly. 

"  If  I  could  but  go  home  and  die!"  he  said,  mentally. 
"  If  I  could  but  feel  my  mother's  hand  upon  my  forehead, 
and  hear  her  voice  again!" 

He  had  remained  sitting  at  the  table  with  the  newspaper 
before  his  face,  to  hide  from  other  eyes  all  signs  of  emotion. 
But,  the  new  feelings  awakened  were,  in  no  degree,  conge 
nial  to  the  gross,  depraved,  and  sensual  sphere  by  which 
he  was  surrounded;  and,  as  he  had  no  money  left,  and, 
therefore,  no  means  of  gratifying  his  thirst  for  liquor,  there 
was  no  inducement  for  him  longer  to  breathe  the  polluted 
atmosphere.  Rising,  therefore,  he  quietly  retired  ;  no  one 
asking  him  to  stay  or  expressing  surprise  at  his  departure 
He  had  no  money  to  spend  at  the  bar,  nor  to  lose  at  the 
gaming^  table  ;  and  was  not,  therefore,  an  object  of  the 
slightest  interest  to  any. 

As  Martin  stepped  into  the  street,  the  cold  rain  struck 
him  in  the  face,  and  the  chilly  air  penetrated  his  thin,  tat 
tered  garments.  The  driving  mist  of  the  early  evening  had 
changed  to  a  heavy  shower,  and  the  street  was  covered 
with  water.  Through  this  he  plunged  as  he  crossed  over, 
and  entered  his  boarding-house,  dripping  from  head  to  foot. 
He  did  not  stop  to  speak  with  any  one,  but  groped  his  way 
in  the  dark  to  the  attic.  Removing  a  portion  of  his  wet 
clothing,  he  threw  himself  upon  his  bed.  He  had  not 
come  to  sleep,  but  to  be  alone  that  he  might  think.  But 
thought  grew  so  painful  that  he  would  fain  have  found  re 
lief  in  slumber,  had  that  been  possible. 

"  If  I  had  never  strayed  from  the  right  path  !"  he  mur 
mured,  as  he  tossed  himself  uneasily.  "  Oh !  if  I  had 
never  strayed !" 

"  Go  back  ?"  he  said,  aloud,  after  some  minutes'  silence, 
answering  to  his  own  thoughts.  "  No — no !  I  will  not 
blast  them  by  my  presence.  Let  them  be  happy.", 

But  the  wish  to  return,  once  felt,  grew  every  moment 
stronger,  and  he  struggled  against  it  until,  at  last,  after 
hours  of  bitter  remorse  and  repentance,  weary  nature  yield 
ed,  and  he  fell  off'  into  a  more  quiet  sleep  than  he  had 
known  for  weeks.  In  this  sleep  came  many  dreams,  all  of 
home,  the  old  pleasant  home,  around  which  clustered  every 


290   THE  WA NDERER'S  RETURN. 

happy  memory  of  his  life ;  and  when  morning  came,  it 
found  him  longing  to  return  to  that  home  with  an  irrepres 
sible  desire. 

"  I  will  go  back,"  said  he,  in  a  firm  voice,  as  he  arose 
at  day's  dawn,  his  mind  clear  and  calm.  "I  will  go  home. 
Home — home !" 

This  proved  no  mere  effervescence  of  the  mind.  The 
idea,  once  fully  entertained,  kept  possession  of  his  thoughts. 
His  first  resolution  was  to  save  his  earnings  until  he  had 
enough  to  procure  decent  clothing  and  pay  his  passage 
back.  A  week  he  kept  to  this  resolution,  not  once  tasting 
a  drop  of  any  intoxicating  liquor.  But  by  that  time  he 
was  so  impatient  of  delay,  that  he  changed  his  purpose, 
and  procured  a  situation  as  deck-hand  on  board  a  steam 
boat  that  was  about  leaving  for  Pittsburg.  For  this  ser 
vice,  he  was  to  receive  three  dollars  for  the  trip,  besides 
being  furnished  with  his  meals.  During  his  week  of  so 
briety,  he  had  been  able  to  save  two  dollars.  With  this 
money  he  got  an  old  pair  of  boots  mended  which  his  em 
ployer  at  the  manufactory  had  given  him,  and  had  his 
clothes  repaired  and  washed,  all  of  which  materially  im 
proved  his  appearance,  and  gave  occasion  for  several 
of  his  fellow-workmen  to  speak  encouragingly,  which 
strengthened  him  greatly  in  his  good  purpose. 

During  the  passage  up  the  river,  Martin  was  subjected 
to  many  temptations,  and  once  or  twice  came  near  falling 
into  his  old  ways.  But  thoughts  of  home  came  stealing 
into  his  mind  at  the  right  moment,  and  saved  him. 

With  three  dollars  in  his  pocket,  the  wages  he  had  re 
ceived  from  the  steamboat  captain,  Martin  started  for 
Philadelphia  on  foot.  He  wras  eight  days  on  the  journey. 
When  he  arrived,  his  boots  were  worn  through,  his  money 
all  expended,  and  himself  sick  with  fatigue,  sad  and 
dispirited.  Luckily  he  met  an  old  acquaintance,  who  was 
a  hand  on  board  a  schooner  loading  with  coal  for  Boston. 
The  vessel  was  to  pass  through  the  canal,  and  then  go  by 
the  way  of  Long  Island  Sound.  Martin  told  his  story  to 
this  old  crony,  who  had  once  been  a  hard  drinker  but  was 
now  reformed,  and  he  persuaded  the  captain  to  give  him  a 
passage. 

Just  two  weeks  from  the  time  of  his  leaving  Cincinnati, 
Martin  saw  the  sails  expand  above  him,  and  felt  the  on- 


THE   WANDERER'S   RETURN.      291 

ward  movement  of  the  vessel  that  was  to  bear  him  home 
ward.  His  heart  swelled  with  sad  yet  pleasant  emotions. 
It  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  heard  from  home ;  and 
longer  still  since  he  had  seen  the  face  of  any  member  of 
his  family.  For  years  he  had  been  a  wanderer.  Now 
returning,  a  mere  wreck,  so  marred  in  every  feature,  and 
so  changed,  that  even  love  would  almost  fail  to  recognize 
him,  the  eyes  of  his  mind  were  bent  eagerly  forward.  And, 
as  the  distance  grew  less  and  less,  and  he  attempted  to 
realize  more  and  more  perfectly  the  meeting  soon  to  take 
place,  his  heart  would  beat  heavily  in  his  bosom,  and  a 
dimness  come  before  his  mental  vision. 

Thanksgiving,  that  day  of  days  in  New  England,  had 
come  round  again.  Among  the  thousands  by  whom  it  was 
celebrated  as  a  festive  occasion,  were  the  Martins,  who 
resided  in  a  village  only  a  few  miles  from  Boston.  Old 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin  had  four  children,  two  sons  and  two 
daughters.  One  of  the  daughters  remained  at  home.  Ra 
chel,  the  oldest  of  the  daughters,  was  in  her  twenty-third 
year ;  and  Martha  was  nineteen.  The  former  was  married 
and  lived  in  the  village.  Thomas,  next  older  than  Rachel, 
•was  also  married.  He  resided  ten  miles  away.  The  old 
est  of  them  all,  William,  was  a  wanderer ;  or,  for  ought 
they  knew  to  the  contrary,  had  long  since  passed  to  his 
great  account.  As  many  as  five  years  had  gone  by  since 
there  had  come  from  him  any  tidings ;  and  nearly  eight 
years  since  his  place  had  been  vacant  at  the  Thanksgiving 
re-unions. 

The  day  rose  calm  and  bright  on  happy  thousands. 
Perhaps  no  family  in  all  New  England  would  have  experi 
enced  a  purer  delight  on  this  occasion,  than  that  of  the 
Martins,  had  not  the  vacant  place  of  an  absent  member 
reminded  them  of  the  wandering,  it  might  be  the  lost. 
Thomas  was  there  with  his  gentle  wife  and  three  bright 
children  ;  Rachel  with  her  husband  and  babe  ;  and  Martha 
with  her  sweet  young  face,  that  was  hardly  ever  guiltless 
of  a  smile.  But  William  was  away ;  and  the  path  in 
which  he  was  treading,  if  he  were  yet  alive,  was  hidden 
from  their  view  by  clouds  and  darkness. 

Dinner,  that  chiefest  event  of  every  Thanksgiving  day, 
was  served  immediately  after  the  return  of  the  family  from 
church.  It  had  been  prepared  by  the  hands  of  Martha, 


292 


THE  WA NDERER'S   RETURN. 


and  she  was  in  the  act  of  taking  an  enormous  turkey  from 
the  oven,  when  a  man  came  to  the  door,  and,  without 
speaking  a  word,  stood  and  looked  at  her  attentively.  She 
noticed  him  as  she  turned  from  the  oven.  He  was  a  sad 
looking  object  for  a  New  England  village  on  Thanksgiving 
day.  His  eyes  were  sunken,  his  face  thin  and  pale,  and 
his  old  tattered  garments  hung  loosely  on  his  meager  limbs. 
He  looked  like  one  just  from  a  bed  of  sickness,  and  he 
bent,  leaning  upon  a  rough  stick,  like  an  old  man  yielding 
to  the  weight  of  years.  Yet,  poor  and  weak  as  he  seemed, 
his  clothes  were  clean,  and  his  face  had  been  recently 
shaven. 

Struck  with  his  appearance,  Martha  paused  and  looked 
at  him  earnestly. 

"  Will  you  let  me  rest  here  for  a  little  while  ?"  said  the 
stranger,  as  soon  as  he  had  attracted  Martha's  attention. 

"  Oh  !  yes.  Sit  down,"  replied  Martha,  whose  sympa 
thies  were  instantly  awakened  by  the  man's  appearance. 
And  she  handed  him  a  chair. 

Just  then,  Rachel,  who  had  taken  off  her  things  on 
returning  from  church,  came  into  the  kitchen  to  assist  Mar 
tha  with  the  dinner.  She  merely  glanced  at  the  man  ;  but 
he  fixed  upon  her  a  most  earnest  look,  and  followed  her 
about  with  his  eyes  as  she  moved  from  one  part  of  the 
room  to  another. 

"  Martha  !"  called  Mrs.  Martin  from  the  adjoining  room. 
Neither  of  the  sisters  saw  the  start  which  the  man  gave, 
nor  observed  the  quick  flush  that  went  over  his  face,  as  he 
turned  his  head  in  the  direction  from  which  the  sound  came. 

Martha  ran  in  to  see  what  her  mother  wanted.  In  a 
little  while  she  came  back,  and,  as  she  entered  the  kitchen, 
she  could  not  help  remarking  the  strange  earnestness  with 
which  the  man  looked  at  her. 

Presently,  Mrs.  Martin  herself  came  in.  She  was  sur 
prised  at  seeing  the  miserable  looking  object  who  had 
intruded  himself  upon  them  at  a  time  that  seemed  so  inop 
portune. 

"  Who  is  that,  Martha  ?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice, 
aside. 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  answered  in  the  same  low  tone — 
not  so  low,  however,  as  to  be  inaudible  to  the  quick  ears 
of  the  stranger. 


THE    WANDERERS    RETURN.         295 

"  What  is  he  doing  here  ?" 

"  He  asked  me  if  I  would  let  him  rest  for  a  little  while  ; 
and  I  couldn't  say  no.  He  looks  sick ;  and  he  must  be 
very  poor." 

"Yes,  poor,  indeed1"  returned  Mrs.  Martin  with  a  sigh; 
a  thought  of  her  own  poor  wanderer  crossing  her  mind. 
This  thought  caused  her  to  turn  to  the  man  and  say  to  him, 

"  Have  you  been  sick,  my  friend  ?" 

The  man  who  had  been  looking  at  her  intently  from  the 
moment  that  she  entered  the  room,  now  turned  his  face 
partly  away  as  he  replied— 

"  Yes.  I've  been  sick  for  a  number  of  days,  but  I  am 
better  now." 

"  You  look  very  poor." 

"  I  am  poor — poor  indeed  !" 

"  You  do  not  belong  to  these  parts?'1 

"  I  do  not  deserve  to,"  replied  the  man,  low  and 
evasively. 

"  Where  do  your  friends  live  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  friends,"  said  the  man. 
There  was  a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice,  that  thrilled,  answer- 
ingly,  a  chord  in  the  heart  of  his  questioner. 

"  No  friends !" 

"  There  still  live  those  who  were  once  my  friends." 

"  And  why  not  your  friends  now  *" t 

The  man  shook  his  head,  sadly. 

"  I  have  proved  myself  unworthy,  and,  doubtless,  they 
have  long  since  cast  me  forth  from  their  regard." 

"  Then  you  have  no  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Martin,  quickly. 
"  A  mother's  love  cannot  die." 

"  I  have  a  mother,  and  I  have  sisters,"  replied  the  man, 
after  a  pause.  "  Feel  kindly  towards  me  for  their  sakes. 
I  have  wandered  long;  but  I  am  repentant;  and,  now 
returning  to  my  old  home,  I  seek " 

The  voice  that  had  been  low  and  unsteady  at  the  begin 
ning,  sunk  sobbing  into  silence,  and  the  stranger's  head 
drooped  upon  his  bosom.  At  that  moment,  Mr.  Martin 
entered,  and  seeing  the  man,  he  exclaimed — 

"  Who  in  the  world  is  this  ?" 

"  William  ?"  fell  half  joyfully,  half  in  doubting  inquiry, 
from  the  mother's  lips. 

36 


'296      THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

"My  mother!"  ejaculated  the  stranger,  starting  forward, 
and  falling  into  her  open  arms. 

"  William— William  !"  said  Mr.  Martin.  "Oh!  no! 
It  cannot  be!" 

"  It  is  !  Yes  !  It  is  my  poor,  poor  boy!"  replied  the 
mother,  disengaging  herself  from  his  clasping  arms,  and 
pushing  him  off  so  that  she  could  get  a  full  view  of  his 
face.  "  Oh  !  William  !  My  son!  my  son!"  And  again 
she  hugged  him  wildly  to  her  .bosom. 

How  freely  the  tears  of  joy  mingled  on  that  happy 
Thanksgiving  day,  need  not  be  told.  There  was  no  longer 
a  vacant  place  at  the  board  ;  and  thought  turned  not  away, 
doubtingly,  in  a  vain  search  for  the  absent  and  the  wander 
ing.  The  long  lost  had  been  found  ;  the  straying  member 
had  come  home.  Theirs  was,  indeed,  a  Thanksgiving  fes 
tival.  Such  joy  as  is  felt  in  heaven  over  a  sinner  that 
repenteth,  made  glad  the  mother's  heart  that  day.  And  it 
has  been  glad  ever  since,  for,  though  Thanksgiving  days 
have  come  again  and  again,  there  has  been  no  absent 
member  since  William's  return. 


JIM  BRADDOCK'S  PLEDGE. 


"  You  'LL  sign  it,  I  'm  sure,"  said  a  persevering  Wash 
ingtonian,  who  had  found  his  way  into  a  little  village  grog 
shop,  and  had  there  presented  the  pledge  to  some  three 
or  four  of  its  half-intoxicated  inmates.  The  last  man 
whom  he  addressed,  after  having  urged  the  others  to  no 
effect,  was  apparently  about  thirty  years  of  age,  and  had 
a  sparkling  eye,  and  a  good-humoured  countenance,  that 
attracted  rather  than  repelled.  The  marks  of  the  de 
stroyer  were,  however,  upon  him,  showing  themselves 
with  melancholy  distinctness. 

"  You  '11  sign,  I  'm  sure,  Jim." 

"  O,  of  course,"  replied  the  individual  addressed,  wink 
ing,  as  he  did  so  to  the  company,  as  much  as  to  say — 
"  Don't  you  want  to  see  fun  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  you  will,  I  know  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will.    Where 's  the  document?" 

"  Here  it  is," — displaying  a  sheet  of  paper  with  sundry 
appropriate  devices,  upon  which  was  printed  in  conspicu 
ous  letters, 

"  We  whose  names ,"  &c. 

"  That 's  very  pretty,  aint  it,  Ike  ?"  said  Jim,  or  James 
Braddock,  with  a  mock  seriousness  of  tone  and  manner. 

"  O,  yes — very  beautiful." 

"  Just  see  here,"  ran  on  Jim,  pointing  to  the  vignette 
over  the  pledge.  —  "This  spruce  chap,  swelled  out  with 
cold-water  until  just  ready  to  burst,  and  still  pouring  in 
more,  is  our  friend  Malcom  here,  I  suppose." 

A  loud  laugh  followed  this  little  hit,  which  seemed  to 
the  company  exceedingly  humorous.  But  Malcom  took 
it  all  in  good  part,  and  retorted  by  asking  Braddock  who 
the  wretched  looking  creature  was  with  a  bottle  in  his 
hand,  and  three  ragged  children,  and  a  pale,  haggard,  dis 
tressed  woman,  following  after  him. 

297 


298         JIM   BRADDOCK'S   PLEDGE. 

"  Another  cold-water  man,  I  suppose,"  Jim  Braddock 
replied  ;  but  neither  his  laugh  nor  the  laugh  of  his  cronies 
was  so  hearty  as  before. 

"  O,  no.  That 's  a  little  mistake  into  which  you  have 
fallen,"  Malcom  said,  smiling.  "He  is  one  of  your  fire 
water  men.  Don't  you  see  how  he  has  been  scorched 
with  it,  inside  and  out.  Now,  did  you  ever  see  such  a 
miserable  looking  creature  1  And  his  poor  children — and 
his  wife !  But  I  will  say  nothing  about  them.  The  pic 
ture  speaks  for  itself." 

"  Here  's  a  barrel,  mount  him  up,  and  let  us  have  a 
temperance  speech !"  cried  the  keeper  of  the  grog-shop, 
coming  from  behind  his  counter,  and  mingling  with  the 
group. 

"  O,  yes. — Give  us  a  temperance  speech  !"  rejoined  Jim 
Braddock,  not  at  all  sorry  to  get  a  good  excuse  for  giving 
up  his  examination  of  the  pledge,  which  had  revived  in 
his  mind  some  associations  of  not  the  pleasantest  charac 
ter  in  the  world. 

"  No  objection  at  all,"  replied  the  ready  Washingtonian, 
mounting  the  rostrum  which  the  tavern-keeper  had  indi 
cated,  to  the  no  small  amusement  of  the  company,  and 
the  great  relief  of  Jim  Braddock,  who  began  to  feel  that 
the  laugh  was  getting  on  the  wrong  side  of  his  mouth,  as 
he  afterwards  expressed  it. 

"Now  for  some  rare  fun  !"  ejaculated  one  of  the  group 
that  gathered  around  the  whiskey-barrel  upon  which  Mal 
com  stood. 

"  This  is  grand  sport !"  broke  in  another. 

"  Take  your  text,  Mr.  Preacher !"  cried  a  third. 

"  O  yes,  give  us  a  text  and  a  regular-built  sermon !" 
added  a  fourth,  rubbing  his  hands  with  great  glee. 

•'Very  well,"  Malcom  replied,  with  good  humour. 
"  Now  for  the  text." 

"  Yes,  give  us  the  text,"  ran  around  the  circle. 

"  My  text  will  be  found  in  Harry  Arnold's  grog-shop, 
Main  street,  three  doors  from  the  corner.  It  is  in  these 
words:  —  'Whiskey-barrel.'  Upon  this  text  I  will  now, 
with  your  permission,  make  a  few  remarks." 

Then  holding  up  his  pledge  and  laying  his  finger  upon 
the  wretched  being  there  represented  as  the  follower  after 
strong  drink,  he  went  on —  .: 


JIM   BRADDOCK'S    PLEDGE.         299 

"  You  all  see  this  poor  creature  here,  and  his  wife  and 
children — well,  as  my  text  and  his  fall  from  happiness  and 
respectability  are  inseparably  united,  I  will,  instead  of 
giving  you  a  dry  discourse  on  an  empty  whiskey-barrel, 
narrate  this  man's  history,  which  involves  the  whiskey- 
barrel,  and  describes  how  it  became  empty,  and  finally 
how  it  came  here.  I  will  call  him  James  Bradly  —  but 
take  notice,  that  I  call  him  a  little  out  of  his  true  name, 
so  as  not  to  seem  personal. 

"Well,  this  James  Bradly  was  a  house-carpenter  —  I 
say  was  —  for  although  still  living,  he  is  no  longer  an 
industrious  house-carpenter,  but  a  very  industrious  grog- 
drinker, —  he  has  changed  his  occupation.  About  five 
years  ago,  I  went  to  his  house  on  some  business.  It  was 
about  dinner-time,  and  the  table  was  set,  and  the  dinner 
on  it. 

" « Come,  take  some  dinner  with  me,'  Mr.  Bradly  said, 
in  such  a  kind  earnest  way,  that  I  could  not  resist,  especi 
ally  as  his  wife  looked  so  happy  and  smiling,  and  the 
dinner  so  neatly  served,  plentiful  and  inviting.  So  I  sat 
down  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bradly,  and  two  fat,  chubby- 
faced  children ;  and  I  do  not  think  I  ever  enjoyed  so 
pleasant  a  meal  in  my  life. 

"  After  dinner  was  over,  Mr.  Bradly  took  me  all  through 
his  house,  which  was  new.  He  had  just  built  it,  and 
furnished  it  with  every  convenience  that  a  man  in  mode 
rate  circumstances  could  desire.  I  was  pleased  with 
everything  I  saw,  and  praised  everything  with  a  hearty 
good  will.  At  last  he  took  me  down  into  the  cellar,  and 
showed  me  a  barrel  of  flour  that  he  had  just  bought — 
twenty  bushels  of  potatoes  and  turnips  laid  in  for  the 
winter,  five  large  fat  hogs,  and  I  can't  remember  what 
all.  Beside  these,  there  was  a  barrel  of  something  lying 
upon  the  cellar  floor. 

"  '  What  is  this  ?'  I  asked. 

" '  O,  that  is  a  barrel  of  whiskey  that  I  have  laid  in 
also.' 

"  '  A  barrel  of  whiskey !'    I  said,  in  surprise. 

" '  Yes.  I  did  some  work  for  Harry  Arnold,  and  the 
best  I  could  do  was  to  take  this  barrel  of  good  old  '  rye' 
in  payment.  But  it  is  just  as  well.  It  will  be  a  saving  in 
the  «ad ' 


300         JIM   BRADDOCK'S   PLEDGE. 

"  '  How  so  V   I  asked. 

"'Why,  because  there  are  more  than  twice  as  many 
drams  in  this  barrel  of  whiskey,  as  I  could  get  for  what  I 
paid  for  it.  Of  course,  I  save  more  than  half.' 

" « But  have  you  taken  into  your  calculation  the  fact, 
that,  in  consequence  of  having  a  barrel  of  whiskey  so 
handy,  you  will  drink  about  two  glasses  to  one  that  you 
would  want  if  you  had  to  go  down  to  Harry  Arnold's  for 
it  every  time'?' 

" '  O  yes,  I  have,'  Bradly  replied.  '  But  still  I  calculate 
on  it  being  a  saving,  from  the  fact  that  I  shall  not  lose  so 
much  time  as  I  otherwise  would  do.  A  great  deal  of 
time,  you  know,  is  wasted  in  these  dram-shops.' 

" '  All  true.  But  have  you  never  considered  the  danger 
arising  from  the  habitual  free  use  of  liquor — such  a  free 
use  as  the  constant  sight  of  a  whole  barrel  of  whiskey 
may  induce  you  to  make  ?' 

" '  Danger !'  ejaculated  Mr.  Bradly  in  surprise. 

"  '  Yes,  danger,'  I  repeated. 

" '  Of  what  ?'   he  asked. 

" '  Of  becoming  too  fond  of  liquor,'  I  replied. 

" '  I  hope  you  do  not  wish  to  insult  me  in  my  own 
house,  Mr.  Malcom,'  the  carpenter  said,  rather  sternly. 

"  '  O  no,'  I  replied.  '  Of  course  I  do  not.  I  only  took 
the  liberty  that  a  friend  feels  entitled  to  use,  to  hint  at 
what  seemed  to  me  a  danger  that  you  might  be  running 
into  blindly.' 

"  Mrs.  Bradly,  who  had  gone  through  the  house  with 
us,  enjoying  my  admiration  of  all  their  comfortable 
arrangements,  seemed  to  dwell  with  particular  interest  on 
what  I  said  in  reference  to  the  whiskey-barrel.  She  was 
now  leaning  affectionately  upon  her  husband's  arm — her 
own  drawn  through  his,  and  her  hands  clasped  together 
—  looking  up  into  his  face  with  a  tender  and  confiding 
regard.  I  could  not  help  noticing  her  manner,  and  the 
expression  of  her  countenance.  And  yet  it  seemed  to  me 
that  something  of  concern  was  on  her  face,  but  so  indis 
tinct  as  to  be  scarcely  visible.  Of  this  I  was  satisfied, 
when  she  said, 

" '  I  don't  think  there  is  much  use  in  drinking  liquor,  do 
vou,  Mr.  Malcom  1' 

" '  I  cannot  see  that  there  is,'  I  replied,  of  course. 


JIM    BRADDOCK'S    PLEDGE.         301 

" '  Nor  can  I.  Of  one  thing  I  think  I  am  certain,  and 
that  is,  that  James  would  be  just  as  comfortable  and  happy 
•without  it  as  with  it.' 

" '  You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,  Sally,' 
her  husband  replied  good-humouredly,  for  he  was  a  man 
of  excellent  temper,  and  a  little  given  to  jesting.  '  But  I 
suppose  you  thought  it  good  for  you  last  christmas,  when 
you  got  boozy  on  egg-nog.' 

"  '  O  James,  how  can  you  talk  so !'  his  wife  exclaimed, 
her  face  reddening.  '  You  know  that  you  served  me  a 
shaneful  trick  then.' 

"  '  What  do  you  think  he  did,  Mr.  Malcom  ?'  she  added, 
turning  to  me,  while  her  husband  laughed  heartily  at  what 
she  said.  '  He  begged  me  to  let  him  make  me  a  little 
wine  egg-nog,  seeing  that  I  wouldn't  touch  that  which  had 
brandy  in  it,  because  liquor  always  flies  to  my  head.  To 
please  him,  I  consented,  though  I  didn't  want  it.  And 
then,  the  rogue  fixed  me  a  glass  as  strong  again  with 
brandy  as  that  which  I  had  refused  to  take.  I  thought 
while  I  was  drinking  it,  that  it  did  not  taste  likawine,  and 
told  him  so.  But  he  declared  that  it  was  wine,  and  that 
it  was  so  sweet  that  I  could  not  clearly  perceive  its  flavour. 
Of  course  I  had  to  go  to  bed,  and  didn't  get  fairly  over  it 
for  two  or  three  days.  Now,  wasn't  that  too  bad,  Mr. 
Malcom !' 

"  « Indeed  it  was,  Mrs.  Bradly,'  I  said  in  reply. 

" '  It  was  a  capital  joke,  though,  wasn't  it  V  rejoined 
her  husband,  laughing  immoderately. 

" '  I  '11  tell  you  a  good  way  to  retort  on  him,'  I  said, 
jestingly. 

"  <  How  is  that,  Mr.  Malcom  ?' 

"  '  Pull  the  tap  out  of  his  whiskey-barrel.' 

"'I  would,  if  I  dared.' 

" « She'd  better  not  try  that,  I  can  tell  her.' 

"  '  What  would  you  do,  if  I  did  V  she  asked. 

" '  Buy  two  more  in  its  place,  and  make  you  drink  one 
of  them.' 

" '  O  dear !  I  must  beg  to  be  excused  from  that.  But, 
indeed,  James,  I  wish  you  would  let  it  run.  I'm  really 
ashamed  to  have  it  said,  that  my  husband  keeps  a  barre' 
of  whiskey  in  the  house.' 


302         JIM    BRADDOCK'S    PLEDGE. 

" ' Nonsense,  Sally !  you  don't  know  what  you  are  talk 
ing  about.' 

" '  Well,  perhaps  I  don't,'  the  wife  said,  and  remained 
silent,  for  there  was  a  half-concealed  rebuke  in  her  hus 
band's  tone  of  voice. 

"  I  saw  that  I  could  say  no  more  about  the  whiskey- 
barrel,  and  so  I  dropped  the  subject,  and,  in  a  short  time, 
after  having  finished  my  business  with  Mr.  Bradly,  went 
away. 

"'Well,  how  comes  on  the  whiskey-barrel?'  I  said  to 
him,  about  a  month  after,  as  we  met  on  the  road. 

"  'First-rate,'  was  his  reply.  'It  contains  a  prime  article 
of  good  old  '  rye,'  I  can  tell  you.  The  best  I  have  ever 
tasted.  Come,  won't  you  go  home  with  me  and  try  some1?' 
'  " '  No,  I  believe  not.' 

" '  Do  now — come  along,'  and  he  took  me  by  the  button, 
and  pulled  me  gently.  '  You  don't  know  how  fine  it  is. 
I  am  sure  there  is  not  another  barrel  like  it  in  the  town.' 

" '  You  must  really  excuse  me,  Bradly,'  I  replied,  for  I 
found  that  he  was  in  earnest,  and  what  was  more,  had  a 
watery  look  about  the  eyes,  that  argued  badly  for  him,  I 
thought. 

"  '  Well,  if  you  won't,  you  won't,'  he  said.  '  But  you 
always  were  an  unsocial  kind  of  a  fellow.' 

"  And  so  we  parted.  Six  months  had  not  passed  before 
it  was  rumoured  through  the  neighbourhood,  that  Bradly 
had  begun  to  neglect  his  business ;  and  that  he  spent  too 
much  of  his  time  at  Harry  Arnold's.  I  met  his  wife  one 
day,  about  this  time,  and,  really,  her  distressed  look  gave 
me  the  heart  ache.  Something  is  wrong,  certainly,  I  said 
to  myself.  It  was  only  a  week  after,  that  I  met  poor 
Bradly  intoxicated. 

"'  Ah,  Malcom — good  day  —  How  are  you?'  he  said, 
reeling  up  to  me  and  offering  his  hand. — 'You  havn't  tried 
that  good  old  rye  of  mine  yet.  Come  along  now,  it*s 
most  gone.' 

" '  You  must  excuse  me  to-day,  Mr.  Bradly,'  I  replied, 
trying  to  pass  on. 

"  But  he  said  I  should  not  get  off  this  time — that  home 
with  him  I  must  go,  and  take  a  dram  from  his  whiskey- 
barrel.  Of  course,  I  did  not  go.  If  there  had  been  no 
other  reason,  I  had  no  desire,  I  can  assure  you,  to  meet 


JIM  BRADDOCKS  PLEDGE.      303 

his  wife  while  her  husband  was  in  so  sad  a  condition. 
After  awhile  I  got  rid  of  him,  and  right  glad  was  I  to 
do  so." 

"  Come,  that'll  do  for  one  day!"  broke  in  Harry  Arnold, 
the  grog-shop-keeper,  at  this  point,  not  relishing  too  well 
the  allusions  to  himself,  nor,  indeed,  the  drift  of  the  narra 
tive,  which  he  very  well  understood. 

"  No — no — go  on !  go  on  !"  urged  two  or  three  of  the 
group.  But  Jim  Braddock  said  nothing,  though  he  looked 
very  thoughtful. 

"I'll  soon  get  through,"  replied  the  Washingtonian, 
showing  no  inclination  to  abandon  his  text.  "  You  see,  I 
did  not,  of  course,  go  home  with  poor  Bradly,  and  he  left 
me  with  a  drunken,  half-angry  malediction.  That  night 
he  went  down  into  his  cellar,  late,  to  draw  some  whiskey, 
and  forgot  his  candle,  which  had  been  so  carelessly  set 
down,  that  it  set  fire  to  a  shelf,  and  before  it  was  dis 
covered  the  fire  had  burned  through  the  floor  above. 

"  Nearly  all  their  furniture  was  saved,  whiskey-barrel 
and  all,  but  the  house  was  burned  to  the  ground.  Since 
that  time,  Bradly  will  tell  you  that  luck  has  been  against 
him.  He  has  been  going  down,  down,  down,  every  year, 
and  now  does  scarcely  anything  but  lounge  about  Harry 
Arnold's  grog-shop  and  drink,  while  his  poor  wife  and 
children  are  in  want  and  suffering,  and  have  a  most 
wretched  look,  as  you  may  see  by  this  picture  on  the 
pledge.  As  for  the  whiskey-barrel,  that  was  rolled  down 
here  about  a  month  ago,  and  sold  for  half  a  dollar's  worth 
of  liquor,  and  here  I  now  stand  upon  it,  and  make  it  the 
foundation  of  a  temperance  speech. 

"  Now,  let  me  ask  you  all  seriously,  if  you  do  not  think 
that  James  Bradly  owes  his  rapid  downfall,  in  a  great 
measure,  to  the  fact  that  Harry  Arnold  would  not  pay 
him  a  just  debt  in  anything  but  whiskey  ?  And  again — 
Is  Harry  Arnold  really  your  friend,  that  you  are  so  willing 
to  beggar  your  wives  and  children  to  put  money  in  his 
till  1  I  only  ask  the  questions.  You  can  answer  then  at 
your  leisure.  So  ends  rny  speech." 

"  You  are  an  insulting  fellow,  let  me  tell  you !"  the 
grog-shop-keeper  said,  as  he  turned  away,  angrily,  and 
went  behind  his  counter. 

37 


304          JIM    BRADDOCK'S    PLEDGE. 

The  Washingtonian  took  no  notice  of  this,  but  went  to 
Jim  Braddock,  who  stood  in  a  musing  attitude  near  the 
door,  and  said — 

"  You  will  sign  now,  won't  you,  Jim  ?" 

" No,  I  will  not !"  was  his  gruff  response.  "I  am  not 
going  to  sign  away  my  liberty  for  you  or  anybody  else. 
fc>o  long  as  I  live,  I  Ml  be  a  free  man." 

"  That 's  right,  Jim  !  Huzza  for  liberty  !"  shouted  his 
companions. 

"  Yes,  huzza  for  liberty  !  say  I,"  responded  Braddock, 
in  the  effort  to  rally  himself,  and  shake  off  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  that  Malcom's  narrative  had  conjured  up — a 
narrative  that  proved  to  be  too  true  a  history  of  his  own 
downfall. 

"  It  was  a  shame  for  you  to  do  what  you  did  down  at 
Harry  Arnold's,"  Braddock  said  to  the  Washingtonian 
about  half  an  hour  afterwards,  meeting  him  on  the  street. 

"  Do  what,  Jim  !" 

"  Why,  rake  up  all  my  past  history  as  you  did,  and 
insult  Harry  in  his  own  house  into  the  bargain." 

"  How  did  I  insult  Harry  Arnold  ?" 

"  By  telling  about  that  confounded  whiskey-barrel  that 
I  have  wished  .a  hundred  times  had  been  in  the  bottom 
of  the  sea,  before  it  ever  fell  into  my  hands." 

"  I  told  the  truth,  didn't  I  ?" 

"  O  yes — it  was  all  true  enough,  and  a  great  deal  too 
true."  " 

"  He  owed  you  a  bill  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  wanted  your  money  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  But  Harry  wouldn't  pay  you  in  anything  but  whiskey?" 

"  No,  he  would  not." 

"  And  so  you  took  a  barrel  of  whiskey,  that  you  did  not 
want,  in  payment  ?" 

"I  did." 

"But  would  much  rather  have  had  the  money?" 

"  Of  course,  I  would." 

"  And  yet,  you  are  so  exceedingly  tender  of  Harry 
Arnold's  feelings,  notwithstanding  his  agency  in  your 
ruin,  that  you  would  not  have  him  reminded  of  his  original 
baseness  —  or  rather  his  dishonesty  in  not  paying  you  in 


JIM   BRADDOCK'S    PLEDGE.         305 

money,  according  to  your  understanding  with  him,  for* 
your  work  1" 

"  I  don't  see  any  use  in  raking  up  these  old  things." 

"  The  use  is,  to  enable  you  to  see  your  folly  so  clearly 
as  to  cause  you  to  abandon  it.  I  am  sure  you  not  only 
see  it  now,  but  feel  it  strongly." 

"  Well,  suppose  I  do? — what  then?" 

"  Why,  sign  the  pledge,  and  become  a  sober  man." 

"I  've  made  up  my  mind  never  to  sign  a  pledge,"  was 
the  emphatic  answer. 

"  Why  r 

"  Because,  I  am  determined  to  live  and  die  a  free  man. 
I  '11  never  sign  away  my  liberty.  My  father  was  a  free 
man  before  me,  and  I  will  live  and  die  a  free  man !" 

"  But  you  're  a  slave  now." 

"  "  It  is  not  true !    I  am  free.  —  Free  to  drink,  or  free  to 
et  it  alone,  as  I  choose." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Jim.  You  have  sold  yourself  into 
slavery,  and  the  marks  of  the  chains  that  still  bind  you, 
are  upon  your  body.  You  are  the  slave  of  a  vile  passion 
that  is  too  strong  for  your  reason." 

"  I  deny  it.     I  can  quit  drinking  if  I  choose." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  quit  ?" 

"  Because  I  love  to  drink." 

"  And  love  to  see  your  wife's  cheek  growing  paler  and 
paler  every  day — and  your  children  ragged  and  neg 
lected  ?" 

"  Malcom !" 

"  I  only  asked  the  question,  Jim." 

"  But  you  know  that  I  don't  love  to  see  them  in  the  con 
dition  they  are." 

"  And  still,  you  say  that  you  can  quit  drinking  when 
ever  you  choose,  but  will  not  do  so,  because  you  love  the 
taste,  or  the  effect  of  the  liquor,  1  don't  know  which  ?" 

Braddock's  feelings  were  a  good  deal  touched,  as  they 
had  been,  ever  since  Malcom's  temperance  speech  in  the 
grog-shop.  He  stood  silent  for  some  time,  and  then  said — 

"  I  know  it's  too  bad  for  me  to  drink  as  I  do,  but  I  will 
break  off." 

"  You  had  better  sign  the  pledge  then." 

"  No,  I  will  not  do  that.  As  I  have  told  you,  I  am 
resolved  never  to  sign  away  my  liberty." 


306          JIM    BRADDOCK'S   PLEDGE. 

"  Very  well.  If  you  are  fixed  in  your  resolution,  I  sup 
pose  it  is  useless  for  me  to  urge  the  matter.  For  the 
sake,  then,  of  your  wife  and  children,  break  away  from 
the  fetters  that  bind  you,  and  be  really  free.  Now  you 
are  not  only  a  slave,  but  a  slave  in  the  most  debasing 
bondage." 

The  two  then  separated,  and  Jim  Braddock — in  former 
years  it  was  Mr.  Braddock  —  returned  to  his  house;  a 
very  cheerless  place,  to  what  it  had  once  been.  Notwith 
standing  his  abandonment  of  himself  to  drink  and  idleness, 
Braddock  had  no  ill-nature  about  him.  Though  he 
neglected  his  family,  he  was  not  quarrelsome  at  home. 
If  Sally,  his  wife,  sometimes  got  out  of  patience,  as  well 
she  might,  and  talked  hard  to  him,  he  never  retorted,  but 
always  turned  the  matter  off  with  a  laugh  or  a  jest.  With 
his  children,  he  was  always  cheerful,  and  frequently 
joined  in  their  sports,  when  not  too  drunk  to  do  so.  All 
this  cool  indifference,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  frequently 
irritated  his  wife,  and  made  her  scold  away  at  him  with 
might  and  main.  He  had  but  one  reply  to  make  when 
ever  this  occurred,  and  that  was — 

"  There  —  there  —  Keep  cool,  Sally !  It  will  all  go  in 
your  lifetime,  darling !" 

As  he  came  into  the  house  after  the  not  very  pleasant 
occurrence  that  had  taken  place  at  Harry  Arnold's,  he 
saw  by  Sally's  excited  face  and  sparkling  eyes  that  some 
thing  was  wrong. 

"What's  the  matter,  Sally?"  he  asked. 

"  Don't  ask  me  what 's  the  matter,  if  you  please !"  was 
her  tart  reply. 

"  Yes,  but  I  want  to  know  ?    Something  is  wrong." 

"  Something  is  always  wrong,  of  course,"  Sally  rejoined 
— "  and  something  always  will  be  wrong  while  you  act 
as  you  do.  It's  a  burning  shame  for  any  man  to  abuse 
his  family  as  you  are  abusing  yours.  Jim " 

"  There  —  there.  Keep  cool,  Sally  !  It  will  all  go  in 
your  lifetime,  darling !"  Jim  responded,  in  a  mild,  soothing 
tone. 

"  O  yes : — It 's  very  easy  to  say  '  keep  cool !'  But  I  'm 
tired  of  this  everlasting  '  keep  cool !'  Quit  drinking  and  go 
to  work,  and  then  it  '11  be  time  to  talk  about  keeping  cool 
Here  I  've  been  all  the  morning  scraping  up  chips  to 


JIM   BRADDOCK'S   PLEDGE.         307 

make  the  fire  burn.  Not  a  stick  in  the  wood-pile,  and 
you  lazing  it  down  to  Harry  Arnold's.  I  wish  to  good 
ness  he  was  hung !  It  's  too  bad !  I  'm  out  of  all  manner 
of  patience !" 

"  There— there.     Keep  cool,  Sally  !    It  '11  all  go " 

"  Hush,  will  you !"  ejaculated  Sally,  stamping  her  foot, 
all  patience  having  left  her  over-tried  spirit.  "  Keep 
away  from  Harry  Arnold's !  Quit  drinking,  and  then  it  '11 
be  time  for  you  to  talk  to  me  about  keeping  cool !" 

"  I  'm  going  to  quit,  Sally,"  Jim  replied,  altogether 
unexcited  by  her  words  and  manner. 

"  Nonsense  !"  rejoined  Sally.  "  You  Ve  said  that  fifty 
times." 

"  But  I  'm  going  to  do  it  now." 

"  Have  you  signed  the  pledge  ?" 

"  No.  I  'm  not  going  to  sign  away  my  liberty,  as  I 
have  often  said.  But  I  'm  going  to  quit." 

"  Fiddle-de-de !  Sign  away  your  liberty  !  You  Ve  got  no 
liberty  to  sign  away  !  A  slave,  and  talk  of  liberty !" 

"  Look  here,  Sally,"  her  husband  said,  good-humoured- 
ly,  for  nothing  that  she  could  say  ever  made  him  get 
angry  with  her — "  you  're  a  hard-mouthed  animal,  and  it 
would  take  a  strong  hand  to  hold  you  in.  But  as  I  like 
to  see  you  go  at  full  gallop,  darling,  I  never  draw  a  tight 
rein.  Aint  you  most  out  of  breath  yet1?" 

"  You  're  a  fool,  Jim  !" 

"  There 's  many  a  true  word  spoken  in  jest,  Sally,"  her 
husband  responded  in  a  more  serious  tone ;  "  I  have  been 
a  most  egregious  fool — but  I  'm  going  to  try  and  act  the 
wise  man,  if  I  havn't  forgotten  how.  So  now,  as  little 
Vic.  said  to  her  mother — 

'  Pray,  Goody,  cease  and  moderate 
The  rancour  of  your  tongue.'" 

Suddenly  his  wife  felt  that  he  was  really  in  earnest,  and 
all  her  angry  feelings  subsided — 

"  O  James !"  she  said  —  "  if  you  would  only  be  as  you 
once  were,  how  happy  we  might  all  again  be !" 

"  I  know  that,  Sally.  And  1  'm  going  to  try  hard  to  be 
as  I  once  was.  There 's  a  little  job  to  be  done  over  at 
Jones',  and  I  promised  him  that  I  would  do  it  for  him  to 
day,  but  I  got  down  to  Harry  Arnold's,  and  there  wasted 
my  time  until  I  was  ashamed  to  begin  a  day's  work.  But 


308         JIM   BRADDOCK'S   PLEDGE. 

to-morrow  morning  I  '11  go  over,  and  stick  at  it  until  it 's 
done.  It  '11  be  cash  down,  and  you  shall  have  every  cent 
it  comes  to,  my  old  girl !"  patting  his  wife  on  the  cheek 
as  he  said  so. 

Mrs.  Braddock,  of  .course,  felt  a  rekindling  of  hope  in 
her  bosom.  Many  times  before  had  her  husband  promised 
amendment,  and  as  often  had  he  disappointed  her  fond 
expectations.  But  still  she  suffered  her  heart  to  hope 
again. 

On  the  next  morning,  James  Braddock  found  an  early 
breakfast  ready  for  him  when  he  got  up.  His  hand  trem 
bled  a  good  deal  as  he  lifted  his  cup  of  coffee  to  his  lips, 
which  was  insipid  without  the  usual  morning-dram  to  put 
a  taste  in  his  mouth.  He  did  not  say  much,  for  he  felt  an 
almost  intolerable  craving  for  liquor,  and  this  made  him 
serious.  But  his  resolution  was  strong  to  .abandon  his 
former  habits. 

"You  won't  forget,  James?"  his  wife  said,  laying  her 
hand  upon  his  arm,  and  looking  him  earnestly  and  with 
moistened  eyes  in  the  face,  as  he  was  about  leaving  the 
house. 

"  No,  Sally,  I  won't  forget.  Take  heart,  my  good  girl. 
Let  what 's  past  go  for  nothing.  It 's  all  in  our  lifetime." 

And  so  saying,  Braddock  turned  away,  and  strode  off 
with  a  resolute  bearing.  His  wife  followed  with  her  eyes 
the  form  of  her  husband  until  it  was  out  of  sight,  and  then 
closed  the  door  with  a  long-drawn  sigh. 

The  way  to  Mr.  Jones'  house  was  past  Arnold's  grog 
shop,  and  as  Braddock  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  his 
accustomed  haunt,  he  felt  a  desire,  growing  stronger  and 
stronger  every  moment,  to  enter  and  join  his  old  associates 
over  a  glass  of  liquor.  To  this  desire,  he  opposed  every 
rational  objection  that  he  could  find.  He  brought  up 
before  his  mind  his  suffering  wife  and  neglected  children, 
and  thought  of  his  duty  to  them.  He  remembered  that  it 
was  drink,  and  drink  alone,  that  had  been  the  cause  of  his 
downfall.  But  with  all  these  auxiliaries  to  aid  him  in 
keeping  his  resolution,  it  seemed  weak  when  opposed  to 
desires,  which  long  continued  indulgence  had  rendered 
inordinate.  Onward  he  went  with  a  steady  pace,  forti 
fying  his  mind  all  the  while  with  arguments  against  drink 
ing,  and  yet  just  ready  at  every  moment  to  yield  the 


JIM   BRADDOCK'S    PLEDGE.          309 

contest  he  was  waging  against  habit  and  desire.  At  last 
the  grog-shop  was  in  sight,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was 
almost  at  the  door. 

"  Hurrah  !  Here 's  Jim  Braddock,  bright  and  early !" 
cried  one  of  his  old  cronies,- from  among  two  or  three 
who  were  standing  in  front  of  the  shop. 

"  So  the  cold-water-men  havn't  got  you  yet !"  broke  in 
another.  "  I  thought  Jim  Braddock  was  made  of  better 
stuff." 

"  Old  birds  aint  caught  with  chaff!"  added  a  third. 

"  Come  !  Hallo !  Where  are  you  off  to  in  such  a  hurry, 
with  your  tools  on  your  back  ?"  quickly  cried  the  first 
speaker,  seeing  that  Braddock  was  going  by  without 
showing  any  disposition  to  stop. 

"  I  Ve  got  a  job  to  do  that 's  in  a  hurry,"  replied  Brad- 
dock,  pausing — "  and  have  no  time  to  stop.  And  besides, 
I  've  sworn  off." 

"  Sworn  off!    Ha !    ha !    Have  you  taken  the  pledge "?" 

"  No,  I  have  not.  I  'm  not  going  to  bind  myself  down 
not  to  drink  any  thing.  I  '11  be  a  free  man.  But  I  won't 
touch  another  drop,  see  if  I  do." 

"  O  yes — we  '11  see.  How  long  do  you  expect  to  keep 
sober  ?" 

"  Always." 

"  You  '11  be  drunk  by  night. ' 

"  Why  do  you  say  so  ?" 

"  I  say  so — that 's  all ;  and  I  know  -so." 

"  But  why  do  you  say  so  ?    Come,  tell  me  that." 

"O,  I've  seen  too  many  swear  off  in  my  time  —  and 
I  've  tried  it  too  often  myself.  It 's  no  use.  Not  over  one 
in  a  hundred  ever  sticks  to  it ;  and  I  'm  sure,  Jim  Brad- 
dock  's  not  that  exception." 

"  There  are  said  to  be  a  hundred  reformed  men  in  this 
town  now.  I  am  sure,  I  know  a  dozen,"  Braddock 
replied. 

"  O  yes.    But  they  've  signed  the  pledge." 

"  Nonsense  !  I  don't  believe  a  man  can  keep  sober  any 
the  better  by  signing  the  pledge,  than  by  resolving  never 
again  to  drink  a  drop." 

"  Facts  are  stubborn  things,  you  know.  But  come,  Jim, 
as  you  havn't  signed  the  pledge,  you  might  as  well  come 


310          JIM    BRADDOCK'S    PLEDGE. 

in  and  take  a  glass  now,  for  you  '11  do  it  before  night, 
take  my  word  for  it." 

It  was  a  fact,  that  Braddock  began  really  to  debate  the 
question  with  himself,  whether  he  should  or  not  go  in  and 
take  a  single  glass,  when  he  became  suddenly  conscious 
of  his  danger,  turned  away,  and  hurried  on,  followed  by 
the  loud,  jeering  laugh  of  his  old  boon  companions. 

"  Up-hill  work,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he  strode 
onward. 

An  hour's  brisk  walking  brought  him  to  the  residence 
of  Mr.  Jones,  nearly  four  miles  away  from  the  little  town 
in  which  he  lived,  where  he  entered  upon  his  day's  work, 
resolved  that,  henceforth,  he  would  be  a  reformed  jnan. 
At  first  he  was  nervous,  from  want  of  his  accustomed 
stimulus,  and  handled  his  tools  awkwardly.  But  after 
awhile,  as  the  blood  began  to  circulate  more  freely,  the 
tone  of  his  system  came  up  to  a  healthier  action. 

About  eleven  o'clock  Mr.  Jones  came  out  to  the  building 
upon  which  Braddock  was  at  work,  and  after  chatting  a 
little,  said — 

"  This  is  grog  time,  aint  it,  Jim  ?" 

"  Yes  sir,  I  believe  it  is,"  was  the  reply. 

"Well,  knock  off  then  for  a  little  while,  and  come  into 
the  house  and  take  a  dram." 

Now  Mr.  Jones  was  a  very  moderate  drinker  himself, 
scarcely  touching  liquor  for  weeks  at  a  time,  unless  in 
company.  But  he  always  kept  it  in  the  house,  and  always 
gave  it  to  his  workmen,  as  a  matter  of  course,  at  eleven 
o'clock.  Had  he  been  aware  of  Braddock's  effort  to 
reform  himself,  he  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  offering 
him  poison  to  drink  as  whiskey.  But,  knowing  his  habits, 
he  concluded,  naturally,  that  the  grog  was  indispensable, 
and  tendered  it  to  him  as  he  had  always  done  before,  on 
like  occasions. 

"  I  've  signed  the  pledge,"  were  the  words  that  instantly 
formed  themselves  in  the  mind  of  Braddock — but  were 
instantly  set  aside,  as  that  reason  for  not  drinking  would 
not  have  been  the  true  one.  Could  he  have  said  that,  all 
difficulty  would  have  vanished  in  a  moment. 

"  No  objection,  Mr.  Jones,"  was  then  uttered,  and  off 
he  started  for  the  house,  resolutely  keeping  down  every 
reason  that  struggled  in  his  mind  to  rise  and  be  heard. 


JIM   BRADDOCK'S    PLEDGE.         311 

The  image  of  Mr.  Jones,  standing  before  him,  with  a 
smiling  invitation  to  come  and  take  a  glass,  backed  by  his 
own  instantly  aroused  inclinations,  had  been  too  strong 
an  inducement.  He  felt,  too,  that  it  would  have  been 
rudeness  to  decline  the  proffered  hospitality. 

"  That  'a  not  bad  to  take,  Mr.  Jones,"  he  said,  smacking 
his  lips,  after  turning  off  a  stiff  glass. 

"  No,  it  is  not,  Jim.  That 's  as  fine  an  article  of  whiskey 
as  I  've  ever  seen,"  Mr.  Jones  replied,  a  little  flattered  at 
Braddock's  approval  of  his  liquor.  "You're  a  good 
judge  of  such  matters." 

"I  ought  to  be."  And  as  Jim  said  this,  he  turned  out 
another  glass. 

"That's  right  —  help  yourself,"  was  Mr.  Jones'  en 
couraging  remark,  as  he  saw  this. 

"  I  never  was  backward  at  that,  you  know,  Mr.  Jones." 

After  eating  a  cracker  and  a  piece  of  cheese,  and  tak 
ing  a  third  drink,  Braddock  went  back  and  resumed  his 
•work,  feeling  quite  happy.  After  dinner  Mr.  Jones  handed 
him  the  bottle  again,  and  did  the  same  when  he  knocked 
off  in  the  evening.  Of  course,  he  was  very  far  from  being 
sober  when  he  started  for  home.  As  he  came  into  town, 
his  way  was  past  Harry  Arnold's,  whose  shop  he  entered, 
and  was  received  with  a  round  of  applause  by  his  old 
associates,  who  saw  at  a  glance  that  Jim  was  "  a  little 
disguised."  Their  jokes  were  all  received  in  good  part, 
and  parried  by  treating  all  around. 

When  her  husband  left  in  the  morning,  Mrs.  Braddock's 
heart  was  lightened  with  a  new  hope,  although  a  fear  was 
blended  with  that  hope,  causing  them  both  to  tremble  in 
alternate  preponderance  in  her  bosom.  Still,  hope  would 
gain  the  ascendency,  and  affected  her  spirits  with  a  degree 
of  cheerfulness  unfelt  for  many  months.  As  the  day  began 
to  decline  towards  evening,  after  putting  everything  about 
the  house  in  order,  she  took  her  three  children,  washed 
them  clean,  and  dressed  them  up  as  neatly  as  their  worn 
and  faded  clothes  would  permit.  This  was  in  order  to 
make  home  present  the  most  agreeable  appearance  possi 
ble  to  her  husband  when  he  returned.  Then  she  killed 
a  chicken  and  dressed  it,  ready  to  broil  for  his  supper 
—  made  up  a  nice  short-cake,  and  set  the  table  with  a 
clean,  white  table-cloth.  About  sundown,  she  commenced 
38 


312          JIM   SHADDOCK'S   PLEDGE. 

baking  the  cake,  and  cooking  the  chicken,  and  at  dusk 
had  them  all  ready  to  put  on  the  table  the  moment  he 
came  in. 

"  Your  father  is  late,"  she  -remarked  to  one  of  the  chil 
dren,  after  sitting  in  a  musing  attitude  for  about  five 
minutes,  after  everything  was  done  that  she  could  do 
towards  getting  supper  ready.  As  she  said  this,  she  got 
up  and  went  to  the  door  and  looked  long  and  intently 
down  the  street  in  the  direction  that  she  expected  him, 
calling  each  distant,  dim  figure,  obscured  by  the  deepening 
twilight,  his,  until  a  nearer  approach  dispelled  the  illusion. 
Each  disappointment  like  this,  caused  her  feelings  to  grow 
sadder  and  sadder,  until  at  length,  as  evening  subsided 
into  night,  with  its  veil  of  thick  darkness,  she  turned  into 
the  house  with  a  heavy  oppressive  sigh,  and  rejoined  the 
children  who  were  impatient  for  their  supper. 

"  Wait  a  little  while,"  was  her  reply  to  their  impor 
tunities.  "  Father  will  soon  be  here  now." 

She  was  still  anxious  that  their  father  should  see  their 
improved  appearance. 

"  O  no" — urged  one.     "  We  want  our  supper  now." 

"  O  yes.  Give  us  our  supper  now.  I  'm  so  sleepy  and 
hungry,"  whined  another. 

And  to  give  force  to  these,  the  youngest  began  to  fret 
and  cry.  Mrs.  Braddock  could  delay  no  longer,  and  so 
she  set  them  up  to  the  table  and  gave  them  as  much  as 
they  could  eat.  Then  she  undressed  each  in  turn,  and  in 
a  little  while,  they  were  fast  asleep. 

When  all  was  quiet,  and  the  mother  sat  down  to  wait 
for  her  husband's  return,  a  feeling  of  deep  despondency 
came  over  her  mind.  It  had  been  dark  for  an  hour,  and 
yet  he  had  not  come  home.  She  could  imagine  no  reason 
for  this,  other  than  the  one  that  had  kept  him  out  so  often 
before — drinking  and  company.  Thus  she  continued  to 
sit,  hour  after  hour,  the  supper  untasted.  Usually,  her 
evenings  were  spent  in  some  kind  of  work — in  mending 
her  children's  clothes,  or  knitting  them  stockings.  But 
now  she  had  no  heart  to  do  anything.  The  state  of 
gloomy  uncertainty  that  she  was  in,  broke  down  her 
spirits,  for  the  time  being. 

Bedtime  came;  and  still  Braddock  was  away.  She 
waited  an  hour  later  than  usual,  and  then  retired,  sinking 


FLEDGE.  313 

back  upon  her  pillow  as  she  did  so,  in  a  state  of  hopeless 
exhaustion  of  mind  and  body. 

In  the  meantime,  her  husband  had  spent  a  merry  even 
ing  at  Harry  Arnold's,  drinking  with  more  than  his  accus 
tomed  freedom.  He  was  the  last  to  go  home,  the  thought 
of  meeting  his  deceived  and  injured  wife,  causing  him  to 
linger.  When  he  did  leave,  it  was  past  eleven  o'clock. 
Though  more  than  half-intoxicated  on  going  from  the  grog 
shop,  the  cool  night  air,  and  the  thought  of  Sally,  sobered 
him  considerably  before  he  got  home.  Arrived"  there,  he 
paused  with  his  hand  on  the  door  for  some  time,  reluctant 
to  enter.  At  last  he  opened  the  door,  and  went  quietly 
in,  in  the  hope  of  getting  up  to  bed  without  his  wife's  dis 
covering  his  condition.  The  third  step  into  the  room 
brought  his  foot  in  contact  with  a  chair,  and  over  he 
\venL,  jarring  the  whole  house  with  his  fall.  His  wife 
heard  this — indeed  her  quick  ear  had  detected  the  open 
ing  of  the  door  —  and  it  caused  her  heart  to  sink  like  a 
heavy  weight  in  her  bosom. 

Gathering  himself  up,  Braddock  moved  forward  again 
as  steadily  as  he  could,  both  hands  extended  before  him. 
A  smart  blow  upon  the  nose  from  an  open  door,  that  had 
insinuated  itself  between  his  hands,  brought  him  up  again, 
and  caused  him,  involuntarily,  to  dash  aside  the  door  which 
shut  with  a  heavy  slam.  Pausing  now,  to  recall  his 
bewildered  senses,,  he  resolved  to  move  forward  with 
more  caution,  and  so  succeeded  in  gaining  the  stairs,  up 
which  he  went,  his  feet,  softly  as  he  tried  to  put  them 
down,  falling  like  heavy  lumps  of  lead,  and  making  the 
house  echo  again.  He  felt  strongly  inclined  to  grumble 
about  all  the  lights  being  put  out,  as  he  came  into  the 
chamber  —  but  a  distinct  consciousness  that  he  had  no 
right  to  grumble,  kept  him  quiet,  and  so  he  undressed  him 
self  with  as  little  noise  as  possible, — which  was  no  very 
small  portion,  for  at  almost  every  moment  he  stept  on 
something,  or  ran  against  something  that  seemed  endowed 
for  the  time  with  sonorous  power  of  double  the  ordinary 
capacity, — and  crept  softly  into  bed. 

Mrs.  Braddock  said  nothing,  and  he  said  nothing.  But 
long  before  her  eyelids  closed  in  sleep,  he  was  loudly 
snoring  by  her  side.  When  he  awoke  in  the  morning, 
Sally  had  arisen  and  gone  down.  A  burning  thirst  caused 


314         JIM   BRADDOCK'S   PLEDGE. 

him  to  get  up  immediately  and  dress  himself.  There  was 
no  water  in  the  room,  and  if  there  had  been,  he  could 
not  have  touched  it  while  there  was  to  be  had  below  a 
cool  draught  from  the  well.  So  he  descended  at  once,  feel 
ing  very  badly,  and  resolving  over  again  that  he  would 
never  touch  another  drop  of  liquor  as  long  as  he  lived. 
Having  quenched  his  thirst  with  a  large  bowl  of  cool 
water  drawn  right  from  the  bottom  of  the  well,  he  went 
up  to  his  wife  where  she  was  stooping  at  the  fire,  and 
said — 

"  Sally,  look  here — " 

"Go  'way,  Jim,"  was  her  angry  response. 

"  No,  but  Sally,  look  here,  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  per 
sisted  her  husband. 

"  Go  'way,  I  say — I  don't  care  if  I  never  see  you 
again !" 

"  So  you've  said  a  hundred  times,  but  I  never  believed 
you,  or  I  might  have  taken  you  at  your  word." 

To  this  his  wife  made  no  reply. 

•'  I  was  drunk  last  night,  Sally,"  Jim  said,  after  a  mo 
ment's  silence. 

"  You  needn't  take  the  trouble  to  tell  me  that." 

"  Of  course  not.  But  an  open  confession,  you  know, 
is  good  for  the  soul.  I  was  drunk  last  night,  then — drunk 
as  a  fool,  after  all  I  promised  —  but  I  'm  not  going  to  get 
drunk  again,  so — " 

"  Don't  swear  any  more  false  oaths,  Jim:  you've  sworn 
enough  already." 

"  Yes,  but  Sally,  I  am  going  to  quit  now,  and  I  want 
you  to  talk  to  me  like  a  good  wife,  and  advise  with  me." 

"  If  you  don't  go  away  and  let  me  alone  now,  I  '11 
throw  these  tongs  at  you !"  the  wife  rejoined,  angrily, 
rising  up  and  brandishing  the  article  she  had  named. 
"You  are  trying  me  beyond  all  manner  of  patience!" 

"There  —  there  —  keep  cool,  Sally.  It'll  all  go  into 
your  lifetime,  darlin',"  Jim  replied,  good-humouredly, 
taking  hold  of  her  hand,  and  extricating  the  tongs  from 
them,  and  then  drawing  his  arm  around  her  waist,  and 
*brcing  her  to  sit  down  in  a  chair,  while  he  took  one  just 
beside  her. 

"Now,  Sally,  I'm  in  dead  earnest,  if  ever  I  was  in  my 
life,"  he  began,  "  and  if  you  '11  tell  me  any  way  to  break 


JIM   BRADDOCK'S    PLEDGE.         317 

off  from  this  wretched  habit  into  which  I  have  fallen, 
I  '11  do  it." 

"  Go  and  sign  the  pledge,  then."  his  wife  said  promptly, 
and  somewhat  sternly. 

"  And  give  up  my  liberty  ?" 

"  And  regain  it,  rather.     You're  a  slave  now." 

"  I  '11  do  it,  then,  for  your  sake." 

"  Don't  trifle  with  me,  any  more,  James ;  I  can't  bear 
it  much  longer,  I  feel  that  I  can't — "  poor  Mrs.  Braddock 
said  in  a  plaintive  tone,  while  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

"  I  wont  deceive  you  any  more,  Sally.  I  '11  sign,  and 
I  '11  keep  my  pledge.  If  I  could  only  have  said  — '  I  've 
signed  the  pledge,'  yesterday,  I  would  have  been  safe. 
But  I  've  got  no  pledge,  and  I  'm  afraid  to  go  out  to  hunt 
up  Malcom,  for  fear  I  shall  see  a  grog-shop." 

"  Can't  you  write  a  pledge  ?" 

"  No.  I  can't  write  anything  but  a  bill,  or  a  label  for 
one  of  your  pickle-pots." 

"  But  try." 

"  Well,  give  me  a  pen,  some  ink,  and  a  piece  of  paper." 

But  there  was  neither,  pen,  ink,  nor  paper,  in  the  house. 
Mrs.  Braddock,  however,  soon  mustered  them  all  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  came  and  put  them  down  upon  the 
table  before  her  husband. 

"  There,  now,  write  a  pledge,"  she  said. 

"  I  will."     And  Jim  took  up  the  pen  and  wrote — 

"  Blister  my  feathers  if  ever  I  drink  another  drop  of  Alcohol, 
or  anything  that  will  make  drunk  come,  sick  or  well,  dead  or 
alive !  JIM  BRADDOCK." 

"  But  that 's  a  queer  pledge,  Jim." 

"  I  don't  care  if  it  is.     I  '11  keep  it." 

"  It 's  just  no  pledge  at  all." 

"  You're  an  old  goose !  Now  give  me  a  hammer  and 
four  nails." 

"  What  do  you  want  with  a  hammer  and  four  nails  ?" 

"  I  want  to  nail  my  pledge  up  over  the  mantelpiece." 

"  But  it  will  get  smoky." 

"So  will  your  aunty.  Give  me  the  hammer  and 
nails." 

Jim's  wife  brought  them  as  desired,  and  he  nailed 
his  pledge  up  over  the  mantelpiece,  and  then  read  it  off 
with  a  proud,  resolute  air. 


318          JIM    BRADDOCK'S    PLEDGE. 

"  I  can  keep  that  pledge,  Sally,  my  old  girl !  And  what's 
more,  I  will  keep  it,  too !"  he  said,  slapping  his  wife  upon 
the  shoulder.  "  And  now  for  some  breakfast  in  double 
quick  time,  for  I  must  be  at  Jones's  early  this  morning." 

Mrs.  Braddock's  heart  was  very  glad,  for  she  had  more 
faith  in  this  pledge  than  she  had  ever  felt  in  any  of  his 
promises.  There  was  something  of  confirmation  in  the 
act  of  signing  his  name,  that  strengthened  her  hopes.  It 
was  not  long  before  she  had  a  good  warm  breakfast  on 
the  table,  of  which  her  husband  eat  with  a  better  appetite 
than  usual,  and  then,  after  reading  his  pledge  over,  Jim 
started  off. 

As  before,  he  had  to  go  past  Harry  Arnold's,  and  early 
as  it  was,  there  were  already  two  or  three  of  his  cronies 
there  for  their  morning  dram.  He  saw  them  about  the 
door  while  yet  at  a  distance,  but  neither  the  grog-shop 
nor  his  old  companions  had  now  any  attraction  for  him. 
He  was  conscious  of  standing  on  a  plain  that  lifted  him 
above  their  influence.  As  he  drew  near,  they  observed 
him,  and  awaited  his  approach  with  pleasure,  for  his  fine 
flow  of  spirits  made  his  company  always  desirable.  But 
as  he  showed  no  inclination  to  stop,  he  was  hailed,  just  as 
he  was  passing,  with, 

"Hallo,  Jim !  Where  are  you  off  to  in  such  a  hurry?" 

"  Off  to  my  work  like  an  honest,  sober  man,"  Jim  re 
plied,  pausing  to  return  his  answer.  "  I  've  taken  the 
pledge,  my  hearties,  and  what 's  more,  I  'm  going  to  keep 
it.  It's  all  down  in  black  and  white,  and  my  name's  to  it 
in  the  bargain, — so  there 's  an  end  of  the  matter,  you  see ! 
Good  bye,  boys  ! — I  'm  sorry  to  leave  you, — but  you  must 

?D  my  way  if  you  want  my  company.  Good  bye,  Harry ! 
ou've  got  the  old  whiskey-barrel,  and  that's  the  last 
you'll  ever  get  of  mine.  I  never  had  any  good  luck 
while  it  was  in  my  house,  and  I  am  most  heartily  glad 
it's  out,  and  in  your  whiskey-shop,  where  I  hope  it  will 
stay.  Good  bye,  old  cronies !" 

And  so  saying,  Jim  turned  away,  and  walked  off  with 
a  proud,  erect  bearing.  His  old  companions  raised  a 
feeble  shout,  but  according  to  Jim's  account,  the  laugh 
was  so  much  on  the  wrong  side  of  their  mouths,  that  it 
didn't  seem  to  him  anything  like  a  laugh. 


JIM    BRADDOCK'S    PLEDGE.         319 

At  eleven  o'clock,  Mr.  Jones  came  out  as  usual,  and 
said — 

"  Well,  Jim,  I  suppose  you  begin  to  feel  a  little  like  it 
was  grog-time1?" 

"  No,  sir,"  Jim  replied.     "  I  'm  done  with  grog." 

"Done  with  grog!"  ejaculated  Mr. Jones,  in  pleased 
surprise.  "  Why,  you  didn't  seem  at  all  afraid  of  it,  yes 
terday  ]" 

"I  did  drink  pretty  hard,  yesterday;  but  that  was  all 
your  fault." 

"  My  fault !  How  do  you  make  that  out  ?" 

"Clear  enough.  Yesterday  morning,  seeing  what  a 
poor  miserable  wretch  I  had  got  to  be,  and  how  much  my 
wife  and  children  were  suffering,  I  swore  off  from  ever 
touching  another  drop.  I  wouldn't  sign  a  pledge,  though, 
because  that,  I  thought,  would  be  giving  up  my  freedom. 
In  coming  here,  I  got  past  Harry  Arnold's  grog-shop 
pretty  well,  but  when  you  came  out  so  pleasantly  at 
eleven  o'clock,  and  asked  me  to  go  over  to  the  house  and 
take  a  drink,  I  couldn't  refuse  for  the  life  of  me  —  espe 
cially  as  I  felt  as  dry  as  a  bone.  So  I  drank  pretty 
freely,  as  you  know,  and  went  home,  in  consequence, 
drunk  at  night,  'notwithstanding  I  had  promised  Sally, 
solemnly,  in  the  morning,  never  to  touch  another  drop 
again  as  long  as  I  lived.  Poor  soul!  Bad  enough,  and 
discouraged  enough,  she  felt  last  night,  I  know. 

"  So  you  see  —  when  I  got  up  this  morning,  I  felt  half- 
determined  to  sign  the  pledge,  at  all  hazards.  Still  I 
didn't  want  to  give  up  my  liberty,  and  was  arguing  the 
•points  over  again,  when  Sally  took  me  right  aback  so 
strongly  that  I  gave  up,  wrote  a  pledge,  signed  it,  and 
nailed  it  up  over  the  mantelpiece,  where  it  has  got  to 
stay." 

"  I  am  most  heartily  glad  to  hear  of  your  good  resolu 
tion,"  Mr.  Jones  said,  grasping  warmly  the  hand  of  Brad- 
dock  — "  and  heartily  ashamed  of  myself  for  having 
tempted  you,  yesterday.  Hereafter,  I  am  resolved  not  to 
offer  liquor  to  any  man  who  works  for  me.  If  my  money 
is  not  enough  for  him,  he  must  go  somewhere  else.  Well," 
he  continued  —  "you  have  signed  away  your  liberty,  as 
you  called  it.  Do  you  feel  any  more  a  slave  than  you 
did  yesterday  ?" 


320          JIM   BRADDOCK'S   PLEDGE. 

"  A  slave  ?  No,  indeed  !  I  'm  a  free  man  now  !  Yester 
day  I  was  such  a  slave  to  a  debased  appetite,  that  all  my 
good  resolutions  were  like  cobwebs.  Now  I  can  act 
like  an  honest,  rational  man.  I  am  in  a  state  of  freedom. 
You  ask  me  to  drink.  I  say  *  no' —  yesterday  I  could  not 
say  no,  because  I  was  not  a  free  man.  But  now  I  am 
free  to  choose  what  is  right,  and  to  reject  what  is  wrong. 
I  don't  care  for  all  the  grog-shops  ana  whiskey-bottles 
from  here  to  sun-down !  I  'm  not  afraid  to  go  past  Harry 
Arnold's  —  nor  even  to  go  in  there  and  make  a  temper 
ance  speech,  if  necessary.  Hurrah  for  freedom  !" 

It  cannot  be  supposed  that  Jim's  wife,  after  her  many 
sad  disappointments,  could  feel  altogether  assured  that  he 
would  stand  by  his  pledge,  although  she  had  more  confi 
dence  in  its  power  over  him  than  in  anything  else,  and 
believed  that  it  was  the  only  thing  that  would  save  him, 
if  he  could  be  saved  at  all.  She  was  far  more  cheerful, 
however,  for  her  hope  was  stronger  than  it  had  ever  been; 
and  went  about  her  house  with  a  far  lighter  step  than 
usual. 

Towards  evening,  as  the  time  began  to  approach  for 
his  return,  she  proceeded,  as  she  had  done  on  the  day 
before,  to  make  arrangements  for  his  comfortable  recep 
tion.  The  little  scene  of  preparation  for  supper,  and 
dressing  up  the  children,  was  all  acted  over  again,  and 
with  a  feeling  of  stronger  confidence.  Still,  her  heart 
would  beat  at  times  oppressively,  as  a  doubt  would  steal 
over  her  mind. 

At  last,  the  sun  was  just  sinking  behind  a  distant  hill. 
It  was  the  hour  to  expect  him.  The  children  were 
gathered  around  her  in  the  door,  and  her  eyes  were  afar 
off,  eagerly  watching  to  descry  his  well-known  form  in 
the  distance.  As  minute  after  minute  passed  away,  and 
the  sun  at  length  went  down  below  the  horizon,  her  heart 
began  to  tremble.  Still,  though  she  strained  her  eyes,  she 
could  see  nothing  of  him, — and  now  the  twilight  began  to 
fall,  dimly  around,  throwing  upon  her  oppressed  heart  a 
deeper  shadow  than  that  which  mantled,  like  a  thin  veil, 
the  distant  hills  and  valleys.  With  a  heavy  sigh,  she  was 
about  returning  into  the  house,  when  a  slight  noise  within 
caused  her  to  turn  quickly,  and  with  a  start. 

"Back  again,  safe  and  sound,  old  girl!"  greeted  her 


JIM   BRADDOCK'S    PLEDGE. 

glad  ear,  as  the  form  of  her  husband  caught  her  eye, 
coming  in  at  the  back  door. 

"  O,  Jim !"  she  exclaimed,  her  heart  bounding  with  a 
wild,  happy  pulsation.  "  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you !" 

And  she  flung  herself  into  his  arms,  giving  way,  as  she 
did  so,  to  a  gush  of  joyful  tears. 

"And  I'm  glad  enough  to  see  you,  too,  Sally!  I've 
thought  about  you  and  the  children  all  day,  and  of  how 
much  I  have  wronged  you.  But  it 's  all  over  now.  That 
pledge  has  done  it !"  pointing  up  as  he  spoke  to  his  pledge 
nailed  over  the  mantelpiece.  "  Since  I  signed  that,  I  've 
not  had  the  first  wish  to  touch  the  accursed  thing  that  has 
ruined  rne.  I  'm  free,  now,  Sally  !  Free  to  do  as  I  please. 
And  that 's  what  I  havn't  been  for  a  long  time.  As  I  told 
Mr.  Jones,  I  don't  care  now  for  all  the  grog-shops,  whis 
key-bottles,  and  Harry  Arnolds,  from  here  to  sun-down." 

"  I  told  you  it  was  all  nonsense,  Jim,  about  signing 
away  your  liberty  !"  Sally  said,  smiling  through  her  tears 
of  joy. 

"  Of  course  it  was.  I  never  was  free  before.  But 
now  I  feel  as  free  as  air.  I  can  go  in  and  come  out  and 
care  no  more  for  the  sight  of  a  grog-shop,  than  for  a 
hay-stack.  I  can  take  care  of  my  wife  and  children,  and 
be  just  as  kind  to  them  as  I  please.  And  that's  what  I 
couldn't  do  before.  Huzza  for  the  pledge,  say  I ! 

"  Blister  my  feathers  if  ever  I  drink  another  drop  of 
Alcohol,  or  anything  that  will  make  drunk  come,  sick  or 
well,  dead  or  alive  !" 

That  evening  Jim  Braddock  sat  down  to  a  good  sup 
per  with  a  smiling  wife,  and  three  children,  all  cleanly 
dressed,  and  looking  as  happy  as  they  could  be.  The  hus 
band  and  father  had  not  felt  so  light  a  heart  bounding  in 
his  bosom  for  years.  He  was  free, — and  felt  that  he  was 
free  to  act  as  reason  dictate  1,  —  to  work  for  and  care 
for  his  household  treasures. 

Nearly  a  year  has  passed,  and  Mr.  James  Braddock  has 
built  himself  a  neat  little  frame  house,  which  is  comfort 
ably  furnished,  and  has  attached  to  it  a  well-cultivated 
garden.  In  his  parlour,  there  hangs,  over  the  mantel 
piece,  his  original  pledge,  handsomely  framed.  Recently 
in  writing  to  a  friend,  he  says — 

"  You  will  ask,  where  did  I  get  them  7"  (his  new  house, 
39 


322 


JIM    BRADDOGK'S   PLEDGE. 


furniture,  &c.)  "  I  '11  tell  you,  boy.  These  are  part  pay 
ment  for  my  liberty,  that  I  signed  away.  Didn't  I  sell  it 
at  a  bargain  1  But  this  is  not  all.  I  've  got  my  shop  back 
again,  with  a  good  run  of  custom — am  ten  years  younger 
than  I  was  a  year  ago  —  have  got  the  happiest  wife  and 
the  smartest  boy  in  all  creation  —  and  don't  care  a  snap 
for  anybody !  So  now,  S.  come  down  here;  bring  your 
wife,  and  all  the  responsibilities,  and  I'll  tell  you  the 
whole  story  —  but  I  can't  write.  Hurrah  for  slavery  I 
Good  bye !  JIM  BRADDOCK.*' 


THE   FAIR   TEMPTER; 


OR, 


WINE    ON    THE   WEDDING-NIGHT, 


"  WHAT  will  you  take,  Haley  ?" 

"  A  glass  of  water."  •  ; 

"  Nonsense  !  Say,  what  will  you  take  ?" 

"  A  glass  of  water.     I  don't  drink  anything  stronger." 

"  Not  a  teetotaller  1  Ha  !  ha !  ha !"  rejoined  the  young 
man's  companion,  laughing  in  mingled  mirth  and  ridicule. 

"  Yes,  a  teetotaller,  if  you  please,"  replied  the  one  call 
ed  Haley. — "  Or  anything  else  you  choose  to  denominate 
me." 

"  You  're  a  member  of  a  temperance  society,  then?  ha! 
ha!" 

"  No,  I  am  not" 

"  Don't  belong  to  the  cold-water  men  ?" 

«  No." 

"  Then  come  along  and  drink  with  me !  Here,  what 
will  you  take  I" 

"  Nothing  at  all,  unless  it  be  a  glass  of  water.  As  I 
have  just  said,  I  drink  nothing  stronger." 

"  What 's  the  reason  ?" 

"  I  feel  as  well — indeed,  a  great  deal  better  without  it." 

"  That 's  all  nonsense !  Come,  take  a  julep,  or  a  brandy- 
punch  with  me." 

"  No,  Loring,  I  cannot." 

"  I  shall  take  it  as  an  offence,  if  you  do  not." 

"I  mean  no  offence,  and  shall  be  sorry,  if  you  construe 
into  one  an  act  not  so  intended.  Drink  if  you  wish  to 
drink,  but  leave  me  in  freedom  to  decline  tasting  liquor  ii 
I  choose." 

"  Well,  you  are  a  strange  kind  of  a  genius,  Haley — 
but  I  believe  I  like  you  too  well  to  get  mad  with  you, 
although  I  generally  take  a  refusal  to  drink  with  one  as 

323 


324  FAIR    TEMPTER;    OR, 

an  insult,  unless  I  know  the  person  to  have  joined  a  tem 
perance  society,  —  and  then  I  should  deem  the  insult  on 
rny  part,  were  I  to  urge  him  to  violate  his  pledge.  But  I 
wonder  you  have  never  joined  yourself  to  some  of  these 
ultra  reformers  —  these  teetotallers,  as  they  call  them 
selves." 

"I  have  never  done  so, — and  never  intend  doing  so. 
It  is  sufficient  for  me  to  decline  drinking,  because  I  do  not 
believe  that  stimulating  beverages  are  good  for  the  body 
or  mind.  I  act  from  principle  in  this  matter,  and,  there 
fore,  want  no  external  restraints." 

"  Then  you  are  determined  not  to  drink  with  me  ?" 

"  O,  yes,  I  will  drink  with  you." 

"Cold-water?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  One  julep,  and  a  glass  of  Adam's-ale,"  said  Loring, 
turning  to  the  bar-keeper. 

They  were  soon  presented,  glasses  touched,  heads  bob 
bed,  and  the  contents  of  the  two  tumblers  poured  down 
their  respective  gullets. 

"  It  makes  a  chill  go  over  me  to  see  you  drinking  that 
stuff,"  Loring  said,  with  an  expression  of  disgust  on  his 
face. 

"  Every  one  to  his  taste,  you  know,"  was  Haley's  half- 
indifferent  response. 

"  You  '11  be  over  to-night,  I  suppose  ?"  said  a  young 
man,  stepping  up  to  him,  as  the  two  emerged  from  the 
"  Coffee"-house  —  precious  little  coffee  was  ever  seen 
there. 

"  O,  yes, — of  course." 

"  You  'd  better  not  come." 

"Why?" 

"  Clara's  got  a  bottle  of  champaign  that  she  says  she 's 
going  to  make  you  taste  this  very  night." 

A  slight  shade  flitted  quickly  over  the  face  of  Haley, 
as  the  young  man  said  this.  But  it  was  as  quickly  gone, 
and  he  replied  with  a  smile, 

"  Tell  Clara  it 's  no  use.  I  'm  an  incorrigible  cold- 
water  man." 

"  She  Ml  be  too  much  for  you." 

"  I  'm  not  afraid." 

«  You  'd  be,  if  you  were  as  well  acquainted  with  her 


WINE    ON    THE    WEDDING-NIGHT.  325 

as  I  am.  I  never  knew  that  girl  to  set  her  head  about 
anything  in  my  life  that  she  didn't  accomplish  it.  And 
she  says  that  she  will  make  you  drink  a  glass  of  wine 
with  her,  in  spite  of  all  your  opposition." 

"  She  '11  find  herself  foiled  once  in  her  life,"  was  the 
laughing  reply;  "and  so  you  may  as  well  tell  her  that 
all  her  efforts  will  be  in  vain,  and  thus  save  further  trou 
ble." 

"  No,  I  won't,  though.  I  '11  tell  her  to  go  on,  while  1 
stand  off  and  look  at  the  fun.  I  '11  bet  on  her,  into  the 
bargain,  for  I  know  she  '11  beat." 

"  So  will  I,  two  to  one  !"  broke  in  Loring — 

"  Don't  be  so  certain  of  that." 

"  We  '11  see,"  was  the  laughing  response,  and  then  the 
young  men  separated. 

Manley,  the  individual  who  had  met  Loring  and  Haley 
at  the  coffee-house  door,  was  the  brother  of  Clara,  and 
Haley  was  her  accepted  lover.  The  latter  had  removed 
to  the  city  in  which  all  the  parties  resided,  some  two 
years  before,  from  the  east,  and  had  commenced  business 
for  himself.  Nothing  was  known  of  his  previous  life,  or 
connections.  But  the  pure  gold  of  his  character  soon 
became  apparent,  and  guarantied  him  a  reception  into 
good  society.  All  who  came  into  association  with  him, 
were  impressed  in  his  favour.  Steadily,  however,  during 
that  time,  had  he  persisted  in  not  tasting  any  kind  of 
stimulating  drinks.  All  kinds  of  stimulating  condiments 
at  table,  were  likewise  avoided.  The  circle  of  acquaint 
ances  which  had  gradually  formed  around  him,  or  into 
which,  rather,  he  had  been  introduced,  was  a  wine  and 
brandy-drinking  set  of  young  men,  and  he  was  frequently 
urged  to  partake  with  them ;  but  neither  persuasion,  ridi 
cule,  nor  pretended  anger,  could,  in  the  least,  move  him 
from  his  fixed  resolution.  Such  scenes  as  that  just  pre 
sented,  were  of  frequent  occurrence,  particularly  with 
recent  acquaintances,  as  was  the  case  with  Loring. 

Within  a  year  he  had  been  paying  attention  to  Clara 
Manley,  a  happy-hearted  young  creature,  over  whose 
bead  scarce  eighteen  bright  summers  had  yet  passed. 
Esteem  and  admiration  of  her  mind  and  person,  had 
gradually  changed  into  a  pure  and  permanent  affection, 
which  was  tenderly  and  truly  reciprocated. 


326  FAIR    TEMPTER;    OR, 

Wine,  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Manley,  was  used  almost  as 
freely  as  water.  It  was,  with  brandy,  an  invariable  ac 
companiment  of  the  dinner-table,  and  no  evening  passed 
without  its  being  served  around.  Haley's  refusal  to  touch 
it,  was  at  first  thought  singular  by  Clara ;  but  she  soon 
ceased  to  observe  the  omission,  and  the  servant  soon 
learned  in  no  case  to  present  him  the  decanter.  George 
Manley,  however,  could  not  tolerate  Haley's  temperate 
habits,  because  he  thought  his  abstinence  a  mere  whim, 
and  bantered  him  upon  it  whenever  occasion  offered. 
At  last,  he  aroused  Clara's  mind  into  opposition,  and 
incited  her  to  make  an  effort  to  induce  her  lover  to  drink. 

"What's  the  use  of  my  doing  it,  brother?"  she  asked, 
when  he  first  alluded  to  it.  "  His  not  drinking  does  no 
harm  to  any  one." 

"  If  it  don't,  it  makes  him  appear  very  singular.  No 
matter  who  is  here  —  no  matter  on  what  occasion,  he 
must  adhere  to  his  foolish  resolution.  People  will  begin 
to  think,  after  awhile,  that  he 's  some  reformed  drunkard, 
and  is  afraid  to  taste  a  drop  of  any  kind  of  liquor." 

"  How  can  you  talk  so,  George  ?"  Clara  said,  with  a 
half-offended  air. 

"  So  it  will  appear,  Clara ;  and  you  can't  help  it,  unless 
you  laugh  him  out  of  his  folly." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  say  anything  to  him  about  it" 

"  You  're  afraid." 

"No,  I  am  not,  George." 

"  Yes,  you  are." 

"  What  am  I  afraid  of?" 

"  Why,  you  're  afraid  that  you  won't  succeed." 

"  Indeed,  then,  and  I  am  not.  A  mere  notion  like  that 
I  could  easily  prevail  on  him  to  give  up.  I  should  be 
sorry,  indeed,  if  I  had  not  that  much  influence  over 
him." 

"  You  '11  find  it  a  pretty  hard  notion  to  beat  out  of  him, 
I  can  tell  you.  I  've  seen  half  a  dozen  young  men  try  for 
an  hour  by  all  kinds  of  means  to  induce  him  to  taste  wine; 
but  it  was  no  use.  He  was  immovable." 

"  I  don't  care ; — he  couldn't  refuse  me,  if  I  set  myself 
about  it." 

"He  could,  and  he  would,  Clara." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 


WINE    ON    THE    WEDDING-NIGHT.  327 

"  Try  him,  then." 

"  I  don't  see  any  use  in  it.  Let  him  enjoy  his  total- 
abstinence  if  he  wishes  to." 

"  I  knew  you  were  afraid." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not,  then." 

"  Yes,  you  are." 

"  It 's  no  such  thing." 

"  Try  him,  then." 

"  I  will,  then,  since  it 's  come  to  that." 

"  He  '11  be  too  much  for  you." 

"  Don't  flatter  yourself.    I  '11  manage  him." 

"  How  ?" 

"  Why,  I  '11  insist  on  his  taking  a  glass  of  that  delight 
ful  champaign  with  me,  which  you  sent  home  yester 
day." 

"  Suppose  he  declines  1" 

"  I  won't  take  his  refusal.  He  shall  take  a  glass  with 
me." 

"We'll  see,  little  sis'.  I'll  bet  on  Haley."— And  so 
saying,  the  young  man  turned  away  laughing  at  the  suc 
cess  of  his  scheme. 

That  evening,  towards  nine  o'clock,  as  Haley  sat  con 
versing  with  Clara,  a  servant  entered  the  room  as  usual 
with  bottles  and  glasses.  George  Manley  was  promptly 
on  his  feet,  to  cut  the  cork  and  "  pop"  the  champaign, 
which  he  did,  while  the  servant  stood  just  before  Clara 
and  her  lover. 

"  You  must  take  a  glass  of  this  fine  champaign  with 
me,  Mr.  Haley,"  the  young  tempter  said,  turning  upon 
him  a  most  winning  smile. 

"  Indeed,  Clara " 

"  Not  a  word  now.     I  shall  take  no  refusal." 

"  I  must  be " 

"  Pour  him  out  a  glass,  George." 

And  George  filled  two  glasses,  one  of  which  Clara 
lifted,  with  the  sparkling  liquor  at  the  height  of  its  effer 
vescence. 

"  There 's  the  other ;  take  it  quick,  before  it  dies,"  she 
said,  holding  her  own  glass  near  her  lips. 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  Clara.  I  do  not  drink  wine," 
Mr.  Haley  said,  as  soon  as  he  was  permitted  to  speak,  in 


328  PAIR   TEMPTER;   OR, 

a  tone  and  with  a  manner  that  settled  the  question  at 
once. 

"  Indeed,  it  is  too  bad,  Mr.  Haley !"  Clara  responded, 
with  a  half-offended  air,  putting  her  untasted  glass  of 
wine  back  upon  the  waiter,  —  "  to  deny  me  so  trifling  a 
request.  I  must  say,  that  your  refusal  is  very  ungallant. 
Whoever  heard  of  a  gentleman  declining  to  take  wine 
with  a  lady  ?" 

"  There  certainly  is  an  exception  to  the  rule  to-night, 
Clara,"  the  young  man  said.  "  Still,  I  can  assure  you, 
that  nothing  ungallaat  was  meant.  But  that  you  know  to 
be  out  of  the  question.  I  could  not  be  rude  to  any  lady, 
much  less  to  you." 

"  0,  as  to  that,  it 's  easy  to  make  fine  speeches  —  but 
acts,  you  know,  speak  louder  than  words" —  Clara  said, 
half-laughing — half-serious. 

The  servant  had,  by  this  time,  passed  on  with  the  un 
tasted  wine;  and,  of  course,  no  further  effort  could  be 
made  towards  driving  the  young  man  from  his  position. 
His  positive  refusal  to  drink,  however,  under  the  circum 
stances,  very  naturally  disappointed  Clara.  He  observed 
the  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  that  took  place  in  her  mind, 
and  it  pained  him  very  much. 

As  for  her,  she  felt  herself  positively  offended.  She 
had  set  her  heart  upon  proving  to  her  brother  her  power 
over  Haley,  but  had  signally  failed  in  the  effort.  He  had 
proved  to  her  immovable  in  his  singular  position. 

From  that  time,  for  many  weeks,  there  was  a  coldness 
between  him  and  Clara.  She  did  not  receive  him  with 
her  accustomed  cordiality;  but  seemed  both  hurt  and 
offended.  To  take  a  simple  glass  of  champaign  with  her 
was  so  small  a  request,  involving,  as  she  reasoned,  no  vio 
lation  of  principle,  that  for  him  to  refuse  to  do  so,  under 
all  the  circumstances,  was  almost  unpardonable. 

Affection,  however,  at  last  triumphed  over  wounded 
pride,  but  not  until  he  had  begun,  seriously,  to  debate  the 
question  of  proposing  to  her  a  dissolution  of  the  contract 
existing  between  them. 

Everything  again  went  on  smoothly  enough,  for  there 
was  no  further  effort  on  the  part  of  Clara  to  drive  her 
lover  from  his  resolution.  But  she  still  entertained  the 


WINE    ON    THE    WEDDING-NIGHT.  329 

idea  of  doing  so  —  and  still  resolved  that  she  would  con 
quer  him. 

At  last  the  wedding-day  was  set,  and  both  looked  for 
ward  to  its  approach  with  feelings  of  pure  delight.  Their 
friends,  without  an  exception,  approved  the  match ;  and 
well  they  might,  for  he  was  a  man  of  known  integrity, 
fine  intellect,  and  cultivated  tastes;  and  she  a  young 
woman  in  every  way  fitted  to  unite  with  him  in  marriage 
bonds.  ; 

Finally  came  the  long  anticipated  evening.  Never 
before  was  there  assembled  in  the  old  mansion  of  Mr. 
Manley  a  happier  company  than  that  which  had  gathered 
to  witness  the  marriage  of  his  daughter,  whose  young 
heart  trembled  in  the  fulness  of  its  delight,  as  she  uttered 
the  sealing  words  of  her  union  with  one  who  possessed 
all  her  heart. 

"  May  kind  heaven  bless  you,  my  child !"  murmured 
the  mother,  as  she  pressed  her  lips  to  those  of  her  happy 
child. 

"  And  make  your  life  glide  on  as  peacefully  as  a  quiet 
stream,"  added  the  father,  kissing  her  in  turn,  scarcely 
refraining,  as  he  did  so,  from  taking  her  in  his  arms  and 
folding  her  to  his  bosom. 

Then  came  crowding  upon  her  the  sincere  congratula 
tions  of  friends.  O,  how  happy  she  felt !  Joy  seemed  to 
have  reached  a  climax.  The  cup  was  so  full,  that  a  drop 
more  would  have  overflowed  the  brim. 

A  few  minutes  sufficed  to  restore  again  the  order  that 
had  reigned  through  the  rooms,  and  the  servants  appeared 
with  the  bride's  cake.  All  eyes  were  upon  the  happy 
couple. 

"  You  won't  refuse  me  now,  James  ?"  the  bride  said,  in 
a  low  tone ;  but  with  an  appealing  look,  as  she  reached 
out  her  hand  and  lifted  a  glass  of  wine. 

There  was  a  hesitation  in  the  manner  of  Haley,  and 
Clara  saw  it.  She  knew  that  all  eyes  were  upon  them, 
and  she  knew  that  all  had  observed  her  challenge.  Her 
pride  was  roused,  and  she  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
being  refused  her  first  request  after  marriage. 

"  Take  it,  James,  for  my  sake,  even  if  you  only  place 
it  to  your  lips  without  tasting  it,"  she  said,  in  a  low, 
hurried  whisper. 

40 


330  FAIR     TEMPTERJ     OR, 

The  young  husband  could  not  stand  this.  He  took  the 
glass,  while  the  heart  of  Clara  bounded  with  an  exulting 
throb.  Of  course,  having  gone  thus  far,  he  had  to  go 
through  the  form  of  drinking  with  her.  In  doing  so,  he 
sipped  but  a  few  drops.  These  thrilled  on  the  nerve  of 
taste  with  a  sensation  of  exquisite  pleasure.  Involuntarily 
he  placed  the  glass  to  his  lips  again,  and  took  a  slight 
draught. 

Then  a  sudden  chill  passed  through  his  frame  as  con 
sciousness  returned,  and  he  would  fain  have  dashed  the  glass 
from  him  as  a  poisoning  serpent  that  was  preparing  to 
sting  him,  but  for  the  company  that  crowded  the  rooms. 
From  this  state  he  was  aroused  by  the  sweet  voice  of 
his  young  wife,  saying,  in  happy  tones — 

"  So  it  has  not  poisoned  you,  James." 

He  smiled  an  answer,  but  did  not  speak.  The  peculiar 
expression  of  that  smile,  Clara  remembered  for  many 
years  afterwards. 

"  Come !  you  must  empty  your  glass  with  me,"  she 
said,  in  a  moment  after.  "  See !  you  have  scarcely  tasted 
it  yet.  Now " 

And  she  raised  her  glass,  and  he  did  the  same.  When 
he  withdrew  his  own  from  his  lips,  it  was  empty. 

"  Bravo  !" — exclaimed  Clara,  in  a  low,  triumphant  tone. 
"  Now,  isn't  that  delightful  wine  I" 

"  Yes,  very." 

"  Did  you  ever  taste  wine  before,  James  ?"  the  bride 
laughingly  said — 

"  O,  yes,  many  a  time.  But  none  so  exquisitely  flavour 
ed  as  this." 

"  Long  abstinence  has  sweetened  it  to  your  taste." 

"  No  doubt." 

"Clara  has  been  too  much  for  you  to-night,  Haley," 
George  Manley  said,  coming  up  at  this  moment,  and 
laughing  in  great  glee. 

"He  couldn't  refuse  me  on  such  an  occasion" — the 
bride  gaily  responded.  "I  set  my  heart  on  making  him 
drink  wine  with  me  on  our  wedding-night,  and  I  have 
succeeded." 

"Are  you  sure  he  hasn't  poured  it  slyly  upon  the 
floor  T' 

"  0,  yes !  I  saw  him  take  every  drop.     And  what  is 


WINE    ON    THE    WEDDING-NIGHT.  331 

more;  he  smacked  his  lips,  and  said  it  was  exquisitely 
flavoured." 

"  Here  comes  the  servant  again,"  George  said,  at  this 
moment.  "  Come,  James !  let  me  fill  your  glass  again. 
You  must  drink  with  me  to-night.  You  've  never  given 
me  that  pleasure  yet.  Come!  —  As  well  be  hung  for  a 
sheep  as  a  lamb." 

Thus  importuned,  Haley  held  up  his  glass  which  George 
Manley  filled  to  the  brim. 

"  Health  and  happiness !"  the  young  man  said,  bowing. 

Haley  bowed  in  return,  placed  the  glass  to  his  lips,  and 
took  its  contents  at  a  draught. 

"  Bravely  done !  Why,  it  seems  to  go  down  quite 
naturally.  You  were  not  always  a  total-abstinence 
man?" 

"  No,  I  was  not." — While  a  slight  shadow  flitted  over 
his  face. 

"  Welcome  back  again,  then,  to  a  truly  social,  and  con 
vivial  spirit !  After  this,  don't  let  me  ever  see  you  refuse 
a  generous  glass." 

"  What !  An  empty  wine-glass  in  the  hand  of  young 
Mr.  Incorrigible  !  Upon  my  word  !"  ejaculated  old  Mr. 
Manley,  coming  up  at  this  moment. 

"  O,  yes,  pa  !  I  've  conquered  him  to-night !  He  couldn't 
refuse  to  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  me  on  this  occasion !" 
the  daughter  said,  in  great  glee. 

"  He  must  take  one  with  me,  too,  then." 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  indeed,  sir,"  Haley  replied  — 
rallying  himself,  and  bracing  up  into  firmness  his  broken 
and  still  wavering  resolutions. 

"  Indeed,  then,  and  I  won't." 

"  O,  no.  Don't  excuse  him  at  all,  pa !  He  drank  with 
me,  and  then  with  brother,  and  now  to  refuse  to  drink 
with  you  would  be  a  downright  shame." 

"  He  has  taken  a  glass  with  George,  too,  has  he  ?  And 
now  wants  to  be  excused  when  I  ask  him.  Upon  my 
word !  Here,  George,  tell  the  servant  to  come  over  this 
way." 

The  servant  came,  of  course,  in  a  moment  or  two,  with 
the  wine. 

"  Fill  up  his  glass,  George,"  the  father  said. 

Haley's  glass  was,  of  course,  filled  again.  * 


332  FAIR    TEMPTER;    OR, 

"Now,  my  boy!  —  Here's  a  health  to  my  children! 
May  this  night's  happiness  be  but  as  a  drop  to  the  ocean 
of  delight  in  reserve  for  them."  Drinking. 

"And  here's  to  our  father!    May  his  children  never 
love  him  less  than  they  do  now."     Drinking  in  turn. 
Thank  you,  my  boy  !" 

And  thank  you  in  return,  for  your  kind  wishes." 
That  wine  didn't  seem  to  taste  unpleasantly,  James  1" 

'  O,  no,  sir.     It  is  rich  and  generous." 
'  How  long  is  it  since  you  tasted  wine  ?" 
About  three  years." 
;  Are  you  not  fond  of  it  ?" 

'  O,  yes.     I  like  a  good  glass  of  wine." 
Then  what  in  the  world  has  made  you  act  so  singu 
larly  about  it  ?" 

"  A  mere  whim  of  mine,  I  suppose  you  will  call  it. 
And  perhaps  it  was.  I  thought  I  was  just  as  well  with 
out  it." 

"  Nonsense !  Don't  let  me  ever  again  hear  of  this  fool 
ishness." 

And  then  the  old  man  mingled  with  the  happy  com 
pany. 

"  Come,  James,  you  must  drink  with  me,  too,"  the  mo 
ther  said,  a  little  while  afterward. 

Haley  did  not  seem  unwilling,  but  turned  off  a  glass  of 
wine  with  an  air  of  real  pleasure. 

"  You  must  drink  with  me,  too,"  went  through  the 
room.  Every  little  while  some  one,  with  whom  the 
young  man  had  on  former  occasions  refused  to  drink, 
finding  out  that  he  had  been  driven  from  his  cold-water 
resolutions,  insisted  upon  taking  a  glass  with  him.  Such 
being  the  case,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  a  remark 
like  this  should  be  made  before  the  passage  of  an  hour. 

"  See  \  As  I  live,  Haley's  getting  lively  !" 

"  I  think  that '  rich  and  generous  wine'  is  beginning  to 
brighten  you  up  a  little,"  Mr.  Manley  said,  about  this 
time,  slapping  his  son-in-law  familiarly  upon  the  shoulder  1 

"  I  feel  very  happy,  sir,"  was  Haley's  reply. 

"  That 's  right.     This  is  a  happy  occasion." 

"  I  never  was  so  happy  in  my  life !  I  hardly  know  what 
to  do  with  myself.  Come !  Won't  you  take  some  wine 
with  me.  I  drank  with  you  a  little  while  ago." 


WINE    ON    THE    WEDDING-NIGHT.  333 

** Certainly!  Certainly!  My  boy!  Or,  perhaps  you 
would  try  a  little  brandy." 

"No  objection,"  said  the  young  man.  And  then  the 
two  went  to  the  side-board,  and  each  took  a  stiff  glass  of 
brandy. 

"  That 's  capital !  It  makes  me  feel  good !"  ejaculated 
Haley,  as  he  set  his  empty  glass  down. 

Cotillions  were  now  formed,  and  the  bride  and  groom 
took  the  floor  in  the  first  set.  Clara  felt  very  proud  of 
her  husband  as  she  leaned  upon  his  arm,  waiting  for  the 
music  to  begin,  and  glanced  around  upon  her  maiden 
companions  with  a  look  of  triumph.  But  she  soon  had 
cause  to  abate  her  exultation,  for  when  the  music  struck 
up,  and  the  dancers  commenced  their  intricate  movements, 
she  found  that  her  husband  blundered  so  as  to  throw  all 
into  confusion.  The  reason  of  this  instantly  flashed  upon 
her  mind,  for  she  knew  him  to  be  a  correct  and  graceful 
dancer.  He  was  too  much  intoxicated  to  dance  1 

Her  woman's  pride  caused  her  to  make  the  effort  to 
guide  him  through  the  figures.  But  it  was  of  no  use.  The 
second  attempt  failed  signally  by  his  breaking  the  figures, 
and  reeling  with  a  loud,  drunken  laugh,  through  and 
through,  and  round  and  round  the  astonished  group  of 
dancers,  thrown  thus  suddenly  into  confusion. 

Poor  Clara,  overwhelmed  with  mortification,  retired  to 
a  seat,  while  her  husband  continued  his  antics,  ending 
them  finally  with  an  Indian  whoop,  such  as  may  often  be 
heard  late  at  night  in  the  streets,  from  a  company  of 
drunken  revellers,  —  when  he  sought  her  out,  and  came 
and  took  a  seat  by  her  side. 

"  Aint  you  happy  to-night,  Clara !  Aint  you,  old  girl !" 
he  said,  in  a  loud  voice,  striking  her  with  his  open  hand 
upon  the  shoulder.  •"  I  'm  so  happy  that  I  feel  just  ready 
to  jump  out  of  my  skin !  Whoop  ! — Now  see  how  beauti 
fully  I  can  cut  a  pigeon's- wing." 

And  he  sprang  from  his  seat,  and  commenced  describ 
ing  the  elegant  figure  he  had  named,  with  industrious 
energy,  much  to  the  amusement  of  one  portion  of  the 
company,  but  to  the  painful  mortification  of  another.  A 
circle  was  soon  formed  around  him,  to  witness  his  grace 
ful  movements,  which  strongly  reminded  those  present 


334  PAIR    TEMPTER;    OR, 

who  had  witnessed   the   performances,   of"  a   corn-field 
negro's  Juba,  or  the  double-shuffle. 

"  Come,"  old  Mr.  Manley  said,  interrupting  the  young 
man  in  his  evolutions,  by  laying  his  hand  upon  his  arm. 
"Come  !  I  want  you  a  moment." 

"  Hel-lel-lel-lo,  o-o,  there!  What's  wanting?  ha!"  he 
said,  pausing,  and  then  staggering  forwards  against  Mr 
Manley.  "  Who  are  you,  sir?" 

"  For  shame,  sir !"  the  old  man  replied  in  a  stern  voice. 
"  Come  with  me,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you." 

"Speak  here,  then,  will  you?  I've  no  se-se-secrets. 
I  'm  open  and  above  board !  Jim  Haley's  the  boy  that 
knows  what  he  's  about !  Who-o-o-oop !  Clear  the  track 
there !" 

And  starting  away  from  the  old  man,  he  ran  two  or 
three  paces,  and  then  sprang  clear  over  the  head  of  a 
young  lady,  frightening  her  almost  out  of  her  wits. 

"  There  !  Who  '11  match  me  that  ?  Jim  Haley's  the  boy 
what 's  hard  to  beat !  Whoo-oo-oop,  hurrah  !  But  where 's 
Clara?  Where 's  my  dear  little  wifie?  Ah!  there  —  No, 
that  isn't  her,  neither.  Wh-wh-where  is  the  little  jade  ?" 

The  whole  of  this  passed  in  a  few  moments,  with  all 
the  drunken  gestures  required  to  give  it  the  fullest  effect. 

Poor  Clara,  at  first  mortified,  when  she  saw  what  a 
perfect  madman  her  husband  had  become,  was  so  shock 
ed  that  her  feelings  overcame  her,  and  she  was  carried 
fainting  from  the  room.  O,  how  bitter  was  her  moment 
ary  repentance  of  her  blind  folly,  ere  her  bewildered 
senses  forsook  her. 

As  for  Haley,  he  grew  worse  and  worse,  until  the 
brandy  which  he  continued  to  pour  down,  had  completely 
stupified  him,  when  he  was  carried  off  to  bed  in  a  state 
of  drunken  insensibility ;  after  which,  the  company  re 
tired  in  oppressive  and  embarrassed  silence. 

Sad  and  lonely  was  the  bridal  chamber  that  night,  and 
the  couch  of  the  young  bride  was  wet  with  bitter,  but  un 
availing  tears. 

On  the  next  morning,  those  who  first  entered  the  room 
where  Haley  had  slept,  found  it  empty.  Towards  the 
middie  of  the  day,  a  letter  was  left  for  Clara  by  an  un 
known  hand.  It  ran  thus : 

"  DEAR  CLARA. — For  you  are  still  dear  to  me,  although 


WINE    ON    THE    WEDDING-NIGHT.  335 

you  have  robbed  me  of  happiness  for  ever,  and  crushed 
your  own  hopes  with  mine.  For  years  before  I  came  to 
this  place,  I  had  been  a  slave  to  intoxication — a  slave  held 
in  a  fearful  bondage.  At  last,  I  resolved  to  break  loose 
from  my  thraldom.  One  vigorous  effort,  and  I  was  free. 
There  yet  remained  to  me  a  small  remnant  of  a  wrecked 
fortune.  With  this  I  abandoned  my  early  home,  and  fixed 
rny  residence  here,  determined  once  more  to  be  a  man. 
Temptations  beset  me  on  every  hand;  but  while  I  touch 
ed  not,  tasted  not,  handled  not,  I  knew  that  I  was  safe. 
But  alas  for  the  hour  when  you  became  my  tempter !  O, 
that  the  remembrance  of  it  could  be  blotted  from  my 
memory  for  ever !  When,  for  your  sake,  I  raised  that 
fatal  glass  to  my  lips,  and  the  single  drop  of  wine  that 
touched  them  thrilled  wildly  through  every  nerve,  I  felt 
that  I  was  lost.  Horrible  were  my  sensations,  but  your 
tempting  voice  lured  me  to  sip  the  scarcely  tasted  poi 
son;  I  did  so,  and  my  resolution  was  gone!  All  that 
occurred  after  that  is  only  dimly  written  on  my  memory. 
But  I  was  a  madman.  That  I  can  realize.  When  drunk, 
I  have  always  acted  the  madman.  And  now  we  part  for 
ever  llama  proud  man,  and  cannot  remain  in  the  scene 
of  my  disgrace.  My  property  I  leave  for  you,  and  go  I 
know  not,  and  care  not,  whither  —  perhaps  to  die,  un- 
lamented,  and  unknown,  and  sink  into  a  drunkard's  grave. 
Farewell !" 

This  letter  bore  neither  name  nor  date.  But  they  were 
not  needed. 

Five  years  from  that  sorrowful  morning  Clara  sat  by  a 
window  in  her  father's  house,  near  the  close  of  day,  look 
ing  dreamily  up  into  the  serene  and  cloudless  sky.  Her 
face  was  pale,  and  had  a  look  of  hopeless  suffering.  Five 
years !  —  It  seemed  as  if  twenty  must  have  passed  over 
her  head,  each  burdening  her  with  a  heavy  weight  of 
affliction.  O,  what  a  wreck  did  she  present !  Five  years 
of  such  a  life!  Who  can  tell  their  history  ?  She  was  alone; 
and  sat  with  her  head  upon  her  hand,  and  her  eyes  fixed, 
as  if  upon  some  object.  But,  evidently,  no  image  touched 
the  nerve  of  vision.  Presently  her  lips  moved,  and  a  few 
mournful  words  were  uttered  aloud,  almost  involuntarily 


P  AIE    TEMPTER. 

"0,  that  I  knew  where  he  was!  0,  that  I  co'I  but 
find  him,  if  alive !" 

A  slight  noise  startled  her,  and  she  turned  <ickly. 
Was  it  a  vision?  Or  did  her  long-lost  husbant  stand 
before  her,  the  shadow  of  what  he  had  been  1 

"  Clara  !  Dear  Clara !" 

In  a  moment  she  was  clinging  to  him  with  a  tr<  ibling, 
eager,  convulsive  grasp.  Tenderly  did  he  fold  h  in  his 
arms,  and  press  his  lips  to  hers  fervently. 

« Clara!  Dear  Clara!" 

"  My  own  dear  husband !"  was  all  she  could  ;er,  as 
she  sank  like  a  helpless  child  on  his  bosom. 

For  four  years  from  the  night  of  his  weddin  Haley 
had  been  a  common  drunkard,  with  no  power  o  r  him 
self.  On  the  brink  of  the  grave,  he  was  rescue  signed 
a  pledge  of  total  abstinence,  and  set  himself  e  erly  to 
work  to  elevate  his  condition.  One  year  had  si  teed  to 
efface  many  sad  tokens  of  his  degradation,  but  ti  3  could 
not  restore  the  freshness  to  his  cheek,  nor  the  li[  i  to  his 
eye.  Then  he  returned  and  sought  his  bride,  ho  still 
mourned  him  with  an  inconsolable  grief.  A  fe  months 
produced  a  happy  change  in  both.  But  they  ca  .ot  look 
back.  Over  the  past  they  throw  a  veil,  —  the  iture  is 
theirs,  and  it  is  growing  brighter  and  brighter.  May  its 
clear  sky  never  oe  darkened! 


TH]  ELEVENTH  COMMANDMENT. 


"  Is  tere  a  good  fire  in  the  little  spare  room  Jane  ?"  said 
Mr.  W?e,  a  plain  country  farmer,  coming  into  the  kitchen 
where  Is  good  wife  was  busy  preparing  for  supper. 

"  Oh  ;es,  I've  made  the  room  as  comfortable  as  can  be," 
replied  -rs.  Wade  ;  "  but  I  wish  you  would  take  up  a  good 
armful  c  wood  now,  so  that  we  wont  have  to  disturb  Mr. 
— ,  y  going  into  the  room  after  he  gets  here." 

"  If  h  should  come  this  evening,"  remarked  the  husband. 
"  But  it  5  getting  late,  and  I  am  afraid  he  won't  be  here 
oefore  tl  morning." 

"  Oh,  guess  he  will  be  along  soon.  I  have  felt  all  day 
as  if  he  ere  coming." 

"  The  say  he  is  a  good  man,  and  preaches  most  power 
fully.  A-.  Jones  heard  him  preach  in  New  York  at  the 
last  confience,  and  tells  me  he  never  heard  such  a  sermon 
as  he  g;  e  them.  It  cut  right  and  left,  and  his  words 
went  hon:  to  every  heart  like  arrows  of  conviction." 

"  I  ho{  he  will  be  here  this  evening,"  remarked  the  wife 
as  she  pi  some  cakes  in  the  oven. 

"  And  )  do  I."  remarked  Mr.  Wade,  as  he  turned  away, 
and  wentmt  to  the  wood  pile  for  an  armfull  of  wood  for 
the  expetid  minister's  room. 

It  wasSaturday  afternoon,  and  nearly  sundown.  Mr. 
— ,  "wo  was  expected  to  arrive,  and  for  whose  comfort 
every  prearation  in  their  power  to  make,  had  been  com 
pleted  byche  family  at  whose  house  he  was  to  stay,  was 

the  new  lesiding  Elder  of  B District,  in  the  New 

Jersey  Coference.  Quarterly  meeting  was  to  be  held  on 

the  next  cy,  which  was  Sunday,  when  Mr.  N was  to 

preach,  ar  administer  the  ordinances  of  the  church.  Being 
his  first  vit  to  that  part  of  the  District,  the  preacher  was 
known  tobut  few,  if  any,  of  the  members,  and  they  all 

41  337 


338       THE    ELEVENTH    COMMANDMENT. 

looked  forward  to  his  arrival  with  interest,  and  were  pre 
pared  to  welcome  him  with  respect  and  affection. 

The  house  of  Mr.  Wade  was  known  as  the  '  minister's 
home.'  For  years,  in  their  movements  through  the  circuit, 
the  preachers,  as  they  came  round  to  this  part  in  the  field 
of  their  appointed  labor,  were  welcomed  by  Brother  and 
Sister  Wade,  and  the  little  spare  chamber  made  comfort 
able  for  their  reception.  It  was  felt  by  these  honest- 
hearted  people,  more  a  privilege  than  a  duty,  thus  to  share 
their  temporal  blessings  with  the  men  of  God  who  minis 
tered  to  them  in  holy  things.  They  had  their  weaknesses, 
as  we  all  have.  One  of  their  weaknesses  consisted  in  a 
firm  belief  that  they  were  deeply  imbued  with  the  genuine 
religion,  and  regarded  things  spiritual  above  all  worldly 
considerations.  They  were  kind,  good  people,  certainly, 
but  not  as  deeply  read  in  the  lore  of  their  own  hearts,  not 
as  familiar  with  the  secret  springs  of  their  own  actions,  as 
all  of  us  should  desire  to  be.  But  this  was  hardly  to  be 
wondered  at,  seeing  that  their  position  in  the  church  was 
rather  elevated  as  compared  with  those  around  them,  and 
they  were  the  subjects  of  little  distinguishing  marks,  flatter 
ing  to  the  natural  man. 

While  Mr.  Wade  was  splitting  a  log  at  the  wood-pile, 
his  thoughts  on  the  new  Presiding  Elder,  and  his  feelings 
warm  with  the  anticipated  pleasure  of  meeting  and  enter 
taining  him,  a  man  of  common  appearance  approached 
along  the  road,  and  when  he  came  to  where  the  farmer 
was,  stood  still  and  looked  at  him  until  he  had  finished 
cutting  the  log,  and  was  preparing  to  lift  the  cleft  pieces  in 
his  arms. 

"  Rather  a  cold  day  this,"  said  the  man. 

"  Yes,  rather,"  returned  Mr.  Wade,  a  little  indifferently, 
and  in  a  voice  meant  to  repulse  the  stranger,  whose  ap 
pearance  did  not  impress  him  very  favorably. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  D ?"  inquired  the  man. 

"  Three  miles,"  replied  Mr.  Wade,  who  having  filled  his 
arms  with  wood,  was  beginning  to  move  off  towards  the 
house. 

"So  far!"  said  the  man  in  a  tone  that  was  slightly 
marked  with  hesitation.  «'  I  thought  it  was  but  a  little  way. 
from  this."  Then  with  an  air  of  hesitation,  and  speaking 


THE   ELEVENTH  COMMANDMENT.       339 

in  a  respectful  voice,  he  added,  "  I  would  feel  obliged  if 
you  would  let  me  go  in  and  warm  myself.  I  have  walked 

for  two  miles  in  the  cold,  and  as  D is  still  three  miles 

off,  I  shall  be  chilled  through  before  I  get  there." 

So  modest  and  natural  a  request  as  this,  Mr.  Wade 
could  not  refuse,  and  yet,  in  the  way  he  said — "  Oh, 
certainly" — there  was  a  manner  that  clearly  betrayed  his 
•wish  that  the  man  had  passed  on  and  preferred  his  request 
somewhere  else.  Whether  this  was  noticed  or  not,  is  of 
no  consequence  ;  the  wayfarer  on  this  assent  to  his  request, 
followed  Mr.  Wade  into  the  house. 

"  Jane,"  said  the  farmer  as  he  entered  the  house  with  the 
stranger,  and  his  voice  was  not  as  cordial  as  it  might  have 
been  ;  "  let  this  man  warm  himself  by  the  kitchen  fire. 

He  has  to  go  all  the  way  to  D this  evening  and  says 

he  is  cold." 

There  is  a  kind  of  magnetic  intelligence  in  the  tones  of 
the  voice.  Mrs.  Wade  understood  perfectly,  by  the  way 
in  which  this  was  said,  that  the  husband  did  not  feel 
much  sympathy  for  the  stranger,  and  only  yielded  the 
favor  asked  because  he  could  not  well  refuse  to  grant  it. 
Her  own  observation  did  not  correct  the  impression  her 
husband's  manner  had  produced.  The  man's  dress,  though 
neither  dirty  nor  ragged,  was  not  calculated  to  impress  any 
one  very  favorably. — His  hat  was  much  worn,  and  the  old 
gray  coat  in  which  he  was  buttoned  up  to  the  chin,  had 
seen  so  much  service  that  it  was  literally  threadbare  from 
collar  to  skirt,  and  showed  numerous  patches,  darns,  and 
other  evidences  of  needlework,  applied  long  since  to  its 
original  manufacture.  His  cow-hide  boots,  though  whole, 
had  a  coarse  look ;  and  his  long  dark  beard  gave  his  face, 
not  a  very  prepossessing  one  at  best,  a  no  very  attractive 
aspect. 

"  You  can  sit  down  there,"  said  Mrs.  Wade,  a  little  un 
graciously,  for  she  felt  the  presence  of  the  man,  just  at 
that  particular  juncture,  as  an  intrusion ;  and  she  pointed 
to  an  old  chair  that  stood  near  the  fire-place,  in  front  of 
which  was  a  large  Dutch  oven  containing  some  of  her  best 

cream  short  cakes,  prepared  especially  for  Mr.  N ,  the 

new  Presiding  Elder  now  momently  expected. 

"  Thank  you,  Ma'am,"  returned  the  stranger,  as  he  took 


340       THE    ELEVENTH    COMMANDMENT. 

the  chair,  and  drew  close  up  to  the  blazing  hearth,  and 
removing  his  thick  woolen  gloves,  spread  his  hands  to 
receive  the  genial  warmth. 

Nothing  more  was  said  by  either  the  stranger  or  Mr. 
Wade,  for  the  space  of  three  or  four  minutes.  During 
this  time,  the  good  house-wife  passed  in  and  out,  once  or 
twice,  busy  as  could  be  in  looking  after  supper  affairs. 
The  lid  of  the  ample  Dutch  oven  had  been  raised  once  or 
twice,  and  both  the  eyes  and  nose  of  the  traveller  greeted 
with  a  pleasant  token  of  the  good  fare  soon  to  be  served 
up  in  the  family.  He  was  no  longer  cold ;  but  the  sight 
and  smell  of  the  cakes  and  other  good  things  in  prepara 
tion  by  the  lady,  awakened  a  sense  of  hunger,  and  made 
it  keenly  felt.  But,  as  the  comfort  of  a  little  warmth  had 
been  bestowed  so  reluctantly,  he  could  not  think  of  tres 
passing  on  the  farmer  and  his  wife  for  a  bite  of  supper, 
and  so  commenced  drawing  on  his  heavy  woolen  gloves, 
and  buttoning  up  his  old  gray  coat.  While  occupied  in 
doing  this,  Mr.  Wade  came  into  the  kitchen,  and  said — 

"I'm  afraid  Jane,  that  the  minister  won't  be  along  this 
evening.  It's  after  sun-down,  and  begins  to  grow  duskish." 

"  He  ought  to  have  been  here  an  hour  ago,"  returned 
Mrs.  W.,  in  a  tone  of  disappointment. 

"  It's  getting  late,  my  friend,  and  D 's  a  good  dis 
tance  ahead,"  remarked  the  farmer,  after  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  fire,  and  regarding  for  some  moments  the 
stranger,  who  had  taken  off  his  gloves,  and  was  slowly 
unbuttoning  his  coat  again. 

"  It's  three  miles  you  say  ?" 

"  Yes,  good  three  miles,  if  not  more ;  and  it  will  be 
dark  in  half  an  hour." 

"  What  direction  must  I  take  ?"  required  the  stranger. 

"  You  keep  along  the  road  until  you  come  to  the  meet 
ing  house  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  half  a  mile  beyond  this, 
and  then  you  strike  off  to  the  right,  and  keep  straight 
on." 

"  What  meeting  house  is  it?" 

"  The  D Methodist  Meeting  House." 

"  You  are  expecting  the  minister,  I  think  you  just  now 
said  ?" 

"Yes.     Mr.  N ,  our  new  Presiding  Elder,  is  to 


THE   ELEVENTH   COMMANDMENT.        341 

preach  to-morrow,  and  he  was  to  have  been  here  ibis 
afternoon.3' 

"  He  is  to  stay  with  you  ?" 

"  Certainly  he  is.    The  ministers  all  stay  at  my  house." 

The  man  got  up,  and  went  to  the  door  and  looked  out. 

"  Couldn't  you  give  me  a  little  something  to  eat  before 
I  go,"  he  said,  returning.  "I  havn't  tasted  food  since  this 
morning,  and  feel  a  little  faint." 

"  Jane,  can't  you  give  him  some  cold  meat  and  bread  ?" 
Mr.  Wade  turned  to  his  wife,  and  she  answered,  just  a 
little  fretfully,  "Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  so;"  and  going  to  the 
cupboard,  brought  out  a  dish  containing  a  piece  of  cold 
fat  bacon  that  had  been  boiled  with  cabbage  for  dinner, 
and  half  a  loaf  of  bread,  which  she  placed  on  the  kitchen 
table  and  told  the  man  to  help  himself.  The  stranger  did 
not  wait  for  another  invitation  ;  but  set  to  work  in  good 
earnest  upon  the  bread  and  bacon,  while  the  farmer  stood 
with  his  hands  behind  him,  and  his  back  to  the  fire,  whist 
ling  the  air  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  while  he  mentally  re 
peated  the  words  of  the  hymn  of  "  When  I  can  read  my 
title  clear,"  and  wished  that  his  visitor  would  make  haste 
and  get  through  with  his  supper.  The  latter,  after  eating 
for  a  short  time  with  the  air  of  a  man  whose  appetite  was 
keen,  began  to  discuss  the  meat  and  bread  with  more 
deliberation,  and  occasionally  to  ask  a  question,  or  make  a 
remark,  the  replies  to  which  were  not  very  gracious, 
although  Mr.  Wade  forced  himself  to  be  as  polite  as  he 
could  be. 

The  homely  meal  at  length  concluded,  the  man  buttoned 
up  his  old  coat  and  drew  on  his  coarse  woolen  gloves  again, 
and  thanking  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wade  for  their  hospitality, 
opened  the  door  and  looked  out.  It  was  quite  dark,  for 
there  was  no  moon',  and  the  sky  was  veiled  in  clouds. 
The  wind  rushed  into  his  face,  cold  and  piercing.  For 
a  moment  or  two,  he  stood  with  his  hand  upon  the  door, 
and  then  closing  it  he  turned  back  into  the  house,  and 
said  to  the  farmer — 

"  You  say  it  is  still  three  miles  to  D ?" 

"  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Wade  coldly.  "  I  said  so  to  you 
when  you  first  stopped,  and  you  ought  to  have  pushed  on 


342       THE   ELEVENTH    COMMANDMENT. 

like  a  prudent  man.  You  could  have  reached  there  before 
it  was  quite  dark." 

"But  I  was  cold  and  hungry,  and  might  have  fainted 
by  the  way." 

The  manner  of  saying  this  touched  the  farmer's  feelings 
a  little,  and  caused  him  to  look  more  narrowly  into  the 
stranger's  face  than  he  had  yet  done.  But  he  saw  nothing 
more  than  he  had  already  seen. 

"  You  have  warmed  and  fed  me,  for  which  I  am  thank 
ful.  Will  you  not  bestow  another  act  of  kindness  upon 
one  who  is  in  a  strange  place,  and  if  he  goes  out  in  the 
darkness  may  lose  himself  and  perish  in  the  cold  ?" 

The  peculiar  form  in  which  this  request  wras  made,  and 
the  tone  in  which  it  was  uttered,  put  it  almost  out  of  the 
power  of  the  farmer  to  say  no. 

"  Go  in  there  and  sit  down,"  he  answed,  pointing  to 
the  kitchen,  "  and  I  will  see  my  wife,  and  hear  what  she 
has  to  say." 

And  Mr.  Wade  went  into  the  parlor  wrhere  the  supper 
table  stood,  covered  with  a  snow-white  cloth,  and  display 
ing  his  wife's  set  of  bluesprigged  china,  that  was  only 
brought  out  on  special  occasions.  Two  tall  mould  candles 
•were  burning  thereon,  and  on  the  hearth  blazed  a  cheer 
ful  hickory  fire. 

"  Hasn't  that  old  fellow  gone  yet  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Wade. 
She  had  heard  his  voice  as  he  returned  from  the  door. 

"No.  And  what  do  you  suppose?  He  wants  us  to 
let  him  stay  all  night." 

tl  Indeed,  and  we'll  do  no  such  thing !  We  can't  have 
the  likes  of  him  in  the  house,  no  how.  Where  could  he 
sleep  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  best  room,  even  if  Mr.  N shouldn't 

come." 

"  No,  indeed !" 

"  But  I  really  don't  see,  Jane  how  we  can  turn  him  out 
of  doors.  He  doesn't  look  like  a  very  strong  man,  and 
it's  dark  and  cold,  and  full  three  miles  to  D ." 

"It's  too  much!  He  ought  to  have  gone  on  while  he 
had  daylight,  and  not  lingered  here  as  he  did  until  it  got 
dark." 


THE    ELEVENTH   COMMANDMENT.       343 

"  We  can't  turn  him  out  of  doors,  Jane  ;  and  it's  no 
use  to  think  of  it.  He'll  have  to  stay  now." 

"  But  what  can  we  do  with  him  ?'' 

"  He  seems  like  a  decent  man,  at  least ;  and  don't  look 
as  if  he  had  anything  bad  about  him.  We  might  make  him 
a  bed  on  the  floor  somewhere." 

"  I  wish  he  had  been  to  Guinea  before  he  came  here," 
said  Mrs.  Wade,  fretfully.  The  disappointment,  the  con 
viction  that  Mr.  N would  not  arrive,  and  the  intrusion 

of  so  unwelcome  a  visitor  as  the  stranger,  completely 
unhinged  her  mind. 

"  Oh,  well,  Jane,"  replied  her  husband  in  a  soothing 
voice,  "  never  mind.  We  must  make  the  best  of  it.  Poor 
man !  He  came  to  us  tired  and  hungry,  and  we  have 
warmed  him  and  fed  him.  He  now  asks  shelter  for  the 
night,  and  we  must  not  refuse  him,  nor  grant  his  request 
in  a  complaining  reluctant  spirit.  You  know  what  the 
Bible  says  about  entertaining  angels  unawares.'' 

"  Angels!  Did  you  ever  see  an  angel  look  like  him  ?" 

"  Having  never  seen  an  angel,"  said  the  husband  smil 
ing,  "I  am  unable  to  speak  as  to  their  appearance." 

This  had  the  effect  to  call  an  answering  smile  to  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Wade,  and  a  better  feeling  to  her  heart.  And 
it  was  finally  agreed  between  them,  that  the  man,  as  he 
seemed  like  a  decent  kind  of  a  person,  should  be  per 
mitted  to  occupy  the  minister's  room,  if  that  individual 
did  not  arrive,  an  event  to  which  they  both  now  looked 
with  but  small  expectancy.  If  he  did  come,  why  the  man 
would  have  put  up  with  poorer  accommodations. 

When  Mr.  Wade  returned  to  the  kitchen  where  the 
stranger  had  seated  himself  before  the  fire,  he  informed 
him,  that  they  had  decided  to  let  him  stay  all  night.  The 
man  expressed  in  a  few  words  his  grateful  sense  of  their 
kindness,  and  then  became  silent  and  thoughtful.  Soon 

after,  the  farmer's  wife,  giving  up  all  hopes  of  Mr.  N 's 

arrival,  had  supper  taken  up,  which  consisted  of  coffee, 
warm  cream  short  cakes,  and  sweet  cakes,  broiled  ham, 
and  broiled  chicken.  After  all  was  on  the  table,  a  short 
conference  was  held,  as  to  whether  it  would  do  not  to  in 
vite  the  stranger  to  take  supper.  It  was  true,  they  had 
given  him  as  much  bread  and  bacon  as  he  could  eat ;  but 


344       THE    ELEVENTH    COMMANDMENT. 

then,  as  long  as  he  was  going  to  stay  all  night,  it  looked 
too  inhospitable  to  sit  down  to  the  table  and  not  ask  him 
to  join  them.  So,  making  a  virtue  of  necessity,  he  was 
kindly  asked  to  come  in  to  supper,  an  invitation  which 
he  did  not  decline.  Grace  was  said  over  the  meal  by  Mr. 
Wade,  and  then  the  coffee  was  poured  out,  the  bread 
helped,  and  the  meat  served. 

There  was  a  fine  little  boy  of  some  five  or  six  years  old 
at  the  table,  who  had  been  brightened  up,  and  dressed  in 
his  best,  in  order  to  grace  the  minister's  reception.  Charley 
wras  full  of  talk,  and  the  parents  felt  a  natural  pride  in 
showing  him  off,  even  before  their  humble  guest,  who 
noticed  him  particularly,  although  he  had  not  much  to  say. 

"  Come,  Charley,"  said  Mr.  Wade,  after  the  meal  was 
over,  and  he  sat  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  "can't  you 
repeat  the  pretty  hymn  mamma  learned  you  last  Sunday  ?" 

Charley  started  off,  without  further  invitation,  and  re 
peated,  very  accurately,  two  or  three  verses  of  a  new 
camp-meeting  hymn,  that  was  just  then  very  popular. 

"  Now  let  us  hear  you  say  the  Commandments,  Charley," 
spoke  up  the  mother,  well  pleased  at  her  child's  perfor 
mance.  And  Charley  repeated  them  with  only  the  aid  of 
a  little  prompting. 

"  How  many  commandments  are  there  ?"  asked  the 
father. 

The  child  hesitated,  and  then  looking  up  at  the  stranger, 
near  whom  he  sat,  said,  innocently, — 

"  How  many  are  there  ?" 

The  man  thought  for  some  moments,  and  said,  as  if  in 
doubt, — 

"  Eleven,  are  there  not  ?" 

"  Eleven  !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Wade,  looking  towards  the 
man  in  unfeigned  surprise. 

"Eleven!"  said  her  husband,  with  more  of  rebuke 
than  astonishment  in  his  voice.  "  Is  it  possible,  sir,  that 
you  do  not  know  how  many  Commandments  there  are  ? 
How  many  are  there,  Charley  ?  Come !  Tell  me ;  you 
know,  of  course." 

"  Ten,"  said  the  child. 

"  Right,  my  son,"  returned  Mr.  Wade,  with  a  smile  of 
approval.  "Pvight.  Why,  there  isn't  a  child  of  his  age 


THE    ELEVENTH   COMMANDMENT.        345 

•within  ten  miles  who  can't  tell  you  that  there  are  ten  Com 
mandraents.  "  Did  you  never  read  the  Bible,  sir  ?"  address 
ing  the  stranger. 

"  When  I  was  a  little  boy,  I  used  to  read  in  it  some 
times.  But  I'm  sure  I  thought  there  were  eleven  Com- 

f  o 

mandments.  Are  you  not  mistaken  about  there  being  only 
ten  ?" 

Sister  Wade  lifted  her  hands  in  unfeigned  astonishment, 
and  exclaimed — 

"  Could  any  one  believe  it  ?  Such  ignorance  of  the 
Bible!" 

Mr.  Wade  did  not  reply,  but  he  arose,  and  going  to  one 
corner  of  the  room,  where  the  Good  Book  lay  upon  a  small 
mahogany  stand,  brought  it  to  the  table,  and  pushing  away 
his  plate,  cup  and  saucer,  laid  the  volume  before  him,  and 
opened  that  portion  in  which  the  Commandments  are  re 
corded. 

"  There !"  he  said,  placing  his  finger  upon  a  proof  of 
the  man's  error.  "  There!  Look  for  yourself!" 

The  man  came  round 'from  his  side  of  the  table,  and 
looked  over  the  farmer's  shoulder. 

"  There  !  Ten  ;— d'ye  see  !" 

"Yes,  it  does  say  ten,"  replied  the  man.  "  And  yet  it 
seems  to  me  there  are  eleven.  I'm  sure  I  have  always 
thought  so." 

"Doesn't  it  say  ten,  here  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Wade,  with 
marked  impatience  in  his  voice. 

"  It  does  certainly." 

"  Well,  what  more  do  you  want  ?  Can't  you  believe 
the  Bible  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  I  believe  in  the  Bible,  and  yet,  somehow,  it 
strikes  me  that  there  must  be  eleven  Commandments. 
Hasn't  one  been  added  somewrhere  else?" 

Now  this  was  too  much  for  Brother  and  Sister  Wade  to 
bear.  Such  ignorance  on  sacred  matters  they  felt  to  be 
unpardonable.  A  long  lecture  followed,  in  which  the 
man  was  scolded,  admonished  and  threatened  with  Divine 
indignation.  At  its  close,  he  modestly  asked  if  he  might 
have  the  Bible  to  read  for  an  hour  or  two,  before  retiring 
to  rest.  This  request  was  granted  with  more  pleasure 
than  any  of  the  preceding  ones.  Shortly  after  supper  the 

42 


346       THE    ELEVENTH   COMMANDMENT. 

man  was  conducted  to  the  little  spare  room  accompanied 
by  the  Bible.  Before  leaving  him  alone,  Mr.  Wade  felt 
it  his  duty  to  exhort  him  on  spiritual  things,  and  he  did  so 
most  earnestly  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes.  But  he  could  not 
see  that  his  words  made  much  impression,  and  he  finally 
left  his  guest,  lamenting  his  ignorance  and  obduracy. 

In  the  morning,  the  man  came  down,  and  meeting  Mr. 
Wade,  asked  him  if  he  would  be  so  kind  as  to  lend  him 
a  razor,  that  he  might  remove  his  beard,  which  did  not 
give  his  face  a  very  attractive  aspect.  His  request  was 
complied  with. 

"  We  will  have  family  prayer  in  about  ten  minutes," 
said  Mr.  Wade,  as  he  handed  him  a  razor  and  a  shaving- 
box. 

In  ten  minutes  the  man  appeared  and  behaved  himself 
with  due  propriety  at  family  worship.  After  breakfast  he 
thanked  the  farmer  and  his  wife  for  their  hospitality,  and 
departing,  went  on  his  journey. 

Ten  o'clock  came,  and  Mr.  N had  not  yet  arrived. 

So  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wade  started  off  for  the  meeting  house, 
not  doubting  that  they  would  find  him  there.  But  they 
were  disappointed.  A  goodly  number  of  people  were  in 
side  the  meeting  house,  and  a  goodly  number  outside,  but 
the  minister  had  not  yet  arrived. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  N ?"  inquired  a  dozen  voices,  as  a 

little  crowd  gathered  around  the  farmer. 

"  He  hasn't  come  yet.  Something  has  detained  him. 
But  I  still  look  for  him ;  indeed,  I  fully  expected  to  find 
him  here." 

The  day  was  cold,  and  Mr.  Wade,  after  becoming 
thoroughly  chilled,  concluded  to  go  in,  and  keep  a  look-out 
for  the  minister  from  the  window  near  which  he  usually 
sat.  Others,  from  the  same  cause,  followed  his  example, 
and  the  little  meeting  house  was  soon  filled,  and  still  one 
after  another  came  dropping  in.  The  farmer,  who  turned 
towards  the  door  each  time.it  opened,  was  a  little  sur 
prised  to  see  his  guest  of  the  previous  night  enter,  and 
come  slowly  along  the  aisle,  looking  from  side  to  side  as 
if  in  search  of  a  vacant  seat,  very  few  of  which  were  now 
left.  Still  advancing,  he  finally  passed  within  the  little 


THE    ELEVENTH   COMMANDMENT.        347 

enclosed  altar,  and  ascending  to  the  pulpit,  took  off  his 
old  gray  overcoat  and  sat  down. 

By  this  time  Mr.  Wade  was  by  his  side,  and  with  his 
hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  You  mustn't  sit  here.  Come  down,  and  I'll  show  you 
a  seat,"  he  said  in  an  excited  tone. 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  the  man,  in  a  composed  tone. 
"It  is  very  comfortable  here." 

"  But  you  are  in  the  pulpit !  You  are  in  the  pulpit, 
sir!" 

"  Oh,  never  mind.  It  is  very  comfortable  here."  And 
the  man  remained  immovable. 

Mr.  Wade,  feeling  much  embarrassed,  turned  away, 
and  went  down,  intending  to  get  a  brother  official  in  the 
church  to  assist  him  in  making  a  forcible  ejection  of  the 
man  from  the  place  he  was  desecrating.  Immediately 
upon  his  doing  so,  however,  the  man  arose,  and  standing 
up  at  the  desk,  opened  the  hymn  book.  His  voice  thrilled 
to  the  very  finger  ends  of  Brother  Wade,  as,  in  a  distinct 
and  impressive  manner,  he  gave  out  the  hymn  beginning — 

"  Help  us  to  help  each  other,  Lord, 

Each  other's  cross  to  bear ; 
Let  each  his  friendly  aid  afford, 

And  feel  a  brother's  care." 

The  congregation  arose  after  the  stranger  had  read  the 
entire  hymn,  and  he  then  repeated  the  two  first  lines  for 
them  to  sing.  Brother  Wade  usually  started  the  tune. 
He  tried  it  this  time,  but  went  off  on  a  long  metre  tune. 
Discovering  his  mistake  at  the  second  word,  he  balked, 
and  tried  it  again,  but  now  he  stumbled  on  short  metre 
A  musical  brother  here  came  to  his  aid,  and  let  off  with 
an  air  that  suited  the  measure  in  which  the  hymn  was 
written.  After  the  singing,  the  congregation  kneeled,  and 
the  minister,  for  no  one  now  doubted  his  real  character, 
addressed  the  Throne  of  Grace  with  much  fervor  and 
eloquence.  The  reading  of  a  chapter  from  the  Bible  suc 
ceeded  to  these  exercises.  Then  there  was  a  deep  pause 
throughout  the  room  in  anticipation  of  the  text,  which  the 
preacher  prepared  to  announce. 

Brother  Wade  looked  pale,  and  his  hands  and  knees 
trembled ; — Sister  Wade's  face  was  like  crimson,  and  her 


348       THE    ELEVENTH    COMMANDMENT. 

heart  was  beating  so  loud  that  she  wondered  whether  the 
sound  was  not  heard  by  the  sister  who  sat  beside  her. 
There  was  a  breathless  silence.  The  dropping  of  a  pin 
might  almost  have  been  heard.  Then  the  fine,  emphatic 
tones  of  the  preacher  filled  the  crowded  room. 

"  A  new  commandment  I  give  unto  you,  that  you  love 
one  another." 

Brother  Wade  had  bent  to  listen,  but  he  now  sank  back 
in  his  seat.  This  was  the  ELEVENTH  COMMANDMENT  ! 

The  sermon  was  deeply  searching,  yet  affectionate  and 
impressive.  The  preacher  uttered  nothing  that  could  in 
the  least  wound  the  brother  and  sister  of  whose  hospi 
tality  he  had  partaken,  but  he  said  much  that  smote  upon 
their  hearts,  and  made  them  painfully  conscious  that  they 
had  not  shown  as  much  kindness  to  the  stranger  as  he  had 
been  entitled  to  receive  on  the  broad  principles  of 
humanity.  But  they  suffered  most  from  mortification  of 
feeling.  To  think  that  they  should  have  treated  the  Pre 
siding  Elder  of  the  District  after  such  a  fashion,  was 
deeply  humiliating;  and  the  idea  of  the  whole  affair  get 
ting  abroad,  interfered  sadly  with  their  devotional  feelings 
throughout  the  whole  period  of  the  service. 

At  last  the  sermon  was  over,  the  ordinance  adminis 
tered,  and  the  benediction  pronounced.  Brother  Wade 
did  not  know  what  it  was  best  for  him  now  to  do.  He 

never  was  more  at  a  loss  in  his  life.  Mr.  N descended 

from  the  pulpit,  but  he  did  not  step  forward  to  meet  him. 
How  could  he  do  that  ?  Others  gathered  around  and 
shook  hands  with  him,  but  he  still  lingered  and  held  back. 

"  Where  is  Brother  Wade  ?"  he  at  length  heard  asked. 
It  was  in  the  voice  of  the  minister. 

"  Here  he  is,"  said  two  or  three,  opening  the  way  to 
where  the  farmer  stood. 

The  preacher  advanced,  and  extending  his  hand,  said  - 

"  How  do  you  do,  Brother  Wade  ?  I  am  glad  to  see 
you.  And  where  is  Sister  Wade?" 

Sister  Wade  was  brought  forward,  and  the  preacher 
shook  hands  with  them  heartily,  while  his  face  was  lit  up 
with  smiles. 

"I  believe  I  am  to  find  my  home  with  you?"  he  said, 
as  if  that  were  a  matter  understood  and  settled. 


THE    ELEVENTH   COMMANDMENT.       349 

Before  the  still  embarrassed  brother  and  sister  could 
reply,  some  one  asked — 

*'  How  came  you  to  be  detained  so  late  ?  You  were 
expected  last  night.  And  where  is  Brother  R ?" 

"  Brother  R is  sick,"  replied  Mr.  N ,  "  and  so 

I  had  to  corne  alone.  Five  miles  from  this  my  horse  gave 
out,  and  I  had  to  come  the  rest  of  the  way  on  foot.  But 
I  became  so  cold  and  weary  that  I  found  it  necessary  to 
ask  a  farmer  not  far  away  from  here  to  give  me  a  night's 
lodging,  which  he  was  kind  enough  to  do.  I  thought  I 
was  still  three  miles  off,  but  it  happened  that  I  was  much 
nearer  my  journey's  end  than  I  had  supposed." 

This  explanation  was  satisfactory  to  all  parties,  and  in 
due  time  the  congregation  dispersed  ;  and  the  Presiding 
Elder  went  home  with  Brother  and  Sister  Wade.  How 
the  matter  was  settled  between  them,  we  do  not  know. 
One  thing  is  certain,  however, — the  story  which  we  have 
related  did  not  get  out  for  some  years  after  the  worthy 
brother  and  sister  had  rested  from  their  labors,  and  it  was 
then  related  by  Mr.  N himself,  who  was  rather  ex- 
centric  in  his  character,  and,  like  numbers  of  his  minis 
terial  brethren,  fond  of  a  good  joke,  and  given  to  relat 
ing  good  stories. 


THE  IRON  WILL. 


"  FANNY!  I've  but  one  word  more  to  say  on  the  subject. 
If  you  marry  that  fellow,  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  you. 
I've  said  it ;  and  you  may  be  assured  that  I'll  adhere  to 
my  determination." 

Thus  spoke,  with  a  frowning  brow  and  a  stern  voice, 
the  father  of  Fanny  Crawford,  while  the  maiden  sat  with 
eyes  bent  upon  the  floor. 

"  He's  a  worthless,  good-for-nothing  fellow,"  resumed 
the  father ;  "  and  if  you  marry  him,  you  wed  a  life  of 
misery.  Don't  come  back  to  me,  for  I  will  disown  you 
the  day  you  take  his  name.  I've  said  it,  and  my  decision 
is  unalterable." 

Still  Fanny  made  no  answer,  but  sat  like  a  statue. 
"  Lay  to  heart  what  I  have  said,  and  make  your  elec 
tion,  girl."     And  with  these  words,  Mr.  Crawford  retired 
from  the  presence  of  his  daughter. 

On  that  evening  Fanny  Crawford  left  her  father's  house, 
and  was  secretly  married  to  a  young  man  named  Logan, 
whom,  spite  of  all  his  faults,  she  tenderly  loved. 

When  this  fact  became  known  to  Mr.  Crawford,  he  an 
grily  repeated  his  threat  of  utterly  disowning  his  child  ; 
and  he  meant  what  he  said — for  he  was  a  man  of  stem 
purpose  and  unbending  will.  When  trusting  to  the  love 
she  believed  him  to  bear  for  her,  Fanny  ventured  home, 
she  was  rudely  repulsed,  and  told  that  she  no  longer  had 
a  father.  These  cruel  words  fell  upon  her  heart  and  ever 
after  rested  there,  an  oppressive  weight. 

Logan  was  a  young  mechanic,  with  a  good  trade  and 
the  ability  to  earn  a  comfortable  living.  But  Mr.  Craw 
ford's  objection  to  him  was  well  founded,  and  it  would 
hav.e  been  better  for  Fanny  if  she  had  permitted  it  to  in 
fluence  her  ;  for  the  young  man  was  idle  in  his  habits,  and 
Mr.  Crawford  too  clearly  saw  that  idleness  would  lead  to 

350 


THE    IRON    WILL.  351 

dissipation.  The  father  had  hoped  that  his  threat  to  dis 
own  his  child  would  have  deterred  her  from  taking  the  step 
he  so  strongly  disapproved.  He  had,  in  fact,  made  this 
threat  as  a  last  effort  to  save  her  from  a  union  that  would, 
inevitably,  lead  to  unhappiness.  But  having  made  it,  his 
stubborn  and  offended  pride  caused  him  to  adhere  with 
stern  inflexibility  to  his  word. 

When  Fanny  went  from  under  her  father's  roof,  the  old 
man  was  left  alone.  The  mother  of  his  only  child  had 
been  many  years  dead.  For  her  father's  sake,  as  well  as 
for  her  own,  did  Fanny  wish  to  return.  She  loved  her 
parents  with  a  most  earnest  affection,  and  thought  of  him 
as  sitting  gloomy  and  companionless  in  that  home  so  long 
made  light  and  cheerful  by  her  voice  and  smile.  Hours 
and  hours  would  she  lie  awake  at  night,  thinking  of  her 
father,  and  weeping  for  the  estrangement  of  his  heart  from 
her.  Still  there  was  in  her  bosom  an  ever  living  hope  that 
he  would  relent.  And  to  this  she  clung,  though  he  passed 
her  in  the  street  without  looking  at  her,  and  steadily 
denied  her  admission,  when,  in  the  hope  of  some  change 
in  his  stern  purpose,  she  would  go  to  his  house  and  seek 
to  gain  an  entrance. 

As  the  father  had  predicted,  Logan  added,  in  the  course 
of  a  year  or  two,  dissipation  to  idle  habits  and  neglect  of 
his  wife  to  both.  They  had  gone  to  housekeeping  in  a 
small  way,  when  first  married,  and  had  lived  comfortably 
enough  for  some  time.  But  Logan  did  not  like  work,  and 
made  every  excuse  he  could  find  to  take  a  holiday,  or  be 
absent  from  the  shop.  The  effect  of  this  was,  an  insuffi 
cient  income.  Debt  came  with  its  mortifying  and  harras- 
sing  accompaniments,  and  furniture  had  to  be  sold  to  pay 
those  who  were  not  disposed  to  wait.  With  two  little 
children,  Fanny  was  removed  by  her  husband  into  a  cheap 
boarding-house,  after  their  things  were  taken  and  sold. 
The  company  into  which  she  was  here  thrown,  was  far 
from  being  agreeable  ;  but  this  would  have  been  no  source 
of  unhappiness  in  itself.  Cheerfully  would  she  have 
breathed  the  uncongenial  atmosphere,  if  there  had  been 
nothing  in  the  conduct  of  her  husband  to  awaken  feelings 
of  anxiety.  But,  alas!  there  was  much  to  create  unhap 
piness  here.  Idle  days  were  more  frequent ;  and  the  conse- 


352  THE    IRON    WILL. 

quences  of  idle  days  more  and  more  serious.  From  his 
work,  he  would  come  home  sober  and  cheerful ;  but  after 
spending  a  day  in  idle  company,  or  in  the  woods  gunning, 
a  sport  of  which  he  was  fond,  he  would  meet  his  wife 
with  a  sullen,  dissatisfied  aspect,  and,  too  often,  in  a  state 
little  above  intoxication. 

"I'm  affraid  thy  son-in-law  is  not  doing  very  well, 
friend  Crawford,"  said  a  plain-spoken  Quaker  to  the  father 
of  Mrs.  Logan,  after  the  young  man's  habits  began,  to 
show  themselves  too  plainly  in  his  appearance. 

Mr.  Crawford  knit  his  brows,  and  drew  his  lips  closely 
together. 

"  Has  thee  seen  young  Logan  lately  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  the  young  man,"  replied  Mr.  Crawford, 
with  an  impatient  motion  of  his  head. 

"  Don't  know  thy  own  son-in-law  !  The  husband  of 
thy  daughter !" 

"  I  have  no  son-in-law !  No  daughter !"  said  Crawford, 
with  stern  emphasis. 

"  Frances  was  the  daughter  of  thy  wedded  wife,  friend 
Crawford." 

"But  I  have  disowned  her.  I  forewarned  her  of  the 
consequences  if  she  married  that  young  man.  I  told  her 
that  I  would  cast  her  off  for  ever  ;  and  I  have  done  it." 

"But,  friend  Crawford,  thee  has  done  wrong." 

"  I've  said  it,  and  I'll  stick  to  it." 

"  But  thee  has  done  wrong,  friend  Crawford,"  repeated 
the  Quaker. 

"  Right  or  wrong,  it  is  done,  and  I  will  not  recall  the 
act.  I  gave  her  fair  warning ;  but  she  took  her  own  course, 
and  now  she  must  abide  the  consequences.  When  I  say 
a  thing,  I  mean  it ;  I  never  eat  my  words." 

"  Friend  Crawford,"  said  the  Quaker,  in  a  steady  voice 
and  with  his  calm  eyes  fixed  upon  the  face  of  the  man  he 
addressed.  "  Thee  was  wrong  to  say  what  thee  did.  Thee 
had  no  right  to  cast  off  thy  child.  I  saw  her  to-day, 
passing  slowly  along  the  street.  Her  dress  was  thin  and 
faded ;  but  not  so  thin  and  faded  as  her  pale,  young  face. 
Ah!  if  thee  could  have  seen  the  sadness  of  that  counte 
nance.  Friend  Crawford !  she  is  thy  child  still.  Thee 
cannot  disown  her." 


THE     IRON    WILL.  353 

"  I  never  change,"  replied  the  resolute  father. 

"  She  is  the  child  of  thy  beloved  wife,  now  in  heaven, 
friend  Crawford." 

"  Good  morning !"  and  Crawford  turned  and  walked 
away. 

"  Rash  words  are  bad  enough,"  said  the  Quaker  to 
himself,  "  but  how  much  worse  is  it  to  abide  by  rash 
words,  after  there  has  been  time  for  reflection  and  re 
pentance  !" 

Crawford  was  troubled  by  what  the  Quaker  said ;  but 
more  troubled  by  what  he  saw  a  few  minutes  afterwards,  as 
he  walked  along  the  street,  in  the  person  of  his  daughter's 
husband.  He  met  the  young  man,  supported  by  two 
others — so  much  intoxicated  that  he  could  not  stand  alone. 
And  in  this  state  he  was  going  home  to  his  wife — to 
Fanny ! 

The  father  clenched  his  hands,  set  his  teeth  firmly  to 
gether,  muttered  an  imprecation  upon  the  head  of  Logan, 
and  quickened  his  pace  homeward.  Try  as  he  would,  he 
could  not  shut  out  from  his  mind  the  pale,  faded  counte 
nance  of  his  child,  as  described  by  the  Quaker,  nor  help 
feeling  an  inward  shudder  at  the  thought  of  what  she 
must  suffer  on  meeting  her  husband  in  such  a  state. 

"  She  has  only  herself  to  blame,"  he  said,  as  he  strug 
gled  with  his  feelings.  "  I  forewarned  her ;  I  gave  her  to 
understand  clearly  what  she  had  to  expect.  My  word  is 
passed.  I  have  said  it ;  and  that  ends  the  matter.  I  am 
no  childish  trifler.  What  I  say,  I  mean." 

Logan  had  been  from  home  all  day,  and,  what  was 
worse,  had  not  been,  as  his  wife  was  well  aware,  at  the 
shop  for  a  week.  The  woman  with  whom  they  were 
ooarding,  came  into  her  room  during  the  afternoon,  and, 
after  some  hesitation  and  embarrassment,  said — 

"  I  am  sorry  to  tell  you,  Mrs.  Logan  that  I  shall  want 
you  to  give  up  your  room,  after  this  week.  You  know  I 
have  had  no  money  from  you  for  nearly  a  month,  and, 
from  the  way  your  husband  goes  on,  I  see  little  prospect 
of  being  paid  any  thing  more.  If  I  was  able,  for  your 
sake,  I  would  not  say  a  word.  But  I  am  not,  Mrs.  LogaE, 
and  therefore  must,  in  justice  to  myself  and  family,  ri 
quire  you  to  get  another  boarding-house." 

43 


354  THE    IRON    WILL. 

Mrs.  Logan  answered  only  with  tears.  The  woman  tried 
to  soften  what  she  had  said,  and  then  went  away. 

Not  long  after  this,  Logan  came  stumbling  up  the  stairs, 
and  opening  the  door  of  his  room,  staggered  in  and  threw 
himself  heavily  upon  the  bed.  Fanny  looked  at  him  a 
few  moments,  and  then  crouching  down,  and  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands,  wept  long  and  bitterly.  She  felt 
crushed  and  powerless.  Cast  off  by  her  father,  wronged 
by  her  husband,  destitute  and  about  to  be  thrust  from  the 
poor  home  into  which  she  had  shrunk :  faint  and  weary,  it 
seemed  as  if  hope  were  gone  forever.  While  she  suffered 
thus,  Logan  lay  in  a  drunken  sleep.  Arousing  herself  at 
last,  she  removed  his  boots  and  coat,  drew  a  pillow  under 
his  head,  and  threw  a  coverlet  over  him.  She  then  sat 
down  and  wept  again.  The  tea  bell  rung,  but  she  did 
not  go  to  the  table.  Half  an  hour  afterwards,  the  land 
lady  came  to  the  door  and  kindly  inquired  if  she  would 
not  have  some  food  sent  up  to  her  room. 

"  Only  a  little  bread  and  milk  for  Henry,"  was  replied- 

"  Let  me  send  you  a  cup  of  tea,"  urged  the  woman. 

"No,  thank  you.     I  don't  wish  any  thing  to  night." 

The  woman  went  away,  feeling  troubled.  From  her 
heart  she  pitied  the  suffering  young  creature,  and  it  had 
cost  her  a  painful  struggle  to  do  what  she  had  done.  But 
the  pressing  nature  of  her  own  circumstances  required 
her  to  be  rigidly  just.  Notwithstanding  Mrs.  Logan  had 
declined  having  any  thing,  she  sent  her  a  cup  of  tea  and 
something  to  eat.  But  they  remained  untasted. 

On  the  next  morning  Logan  was  sober,  and  his  wife 
informed  him  of  the  notice  which  their  landlady  had  given. 
He  was  angry,  and  used  harsh  language  towards  the 
woman.  Fanny  defended  her,  and  had  the  harsh  language 
transferred  to  her  own  head. 

The  young  man  appeared  as  usual  at  the  breakfast  table, 
but  Fanny  had  no  appetite  for  food,  and  did  not  go  down. 
After  breakfast,  Logan  went  to  the  shop,  intending  to  go  to 
work ;  but  found  his  place  supplied  by  another  journey 
man,  and  himself  thrown  out  of  employment,  with  but  a 
single  dollar  in  his  pocket,  a  month's  boarding  due,  and 
his  family  in  need  of  almost  every  comfort.  From  the 
shop  he  went  to  a  tavern,  took  a  glass  of  liquor,  and  sat 


THE     IRON    WILL.  355 

down  to  look  over  the  newspapers,  and  think  what  he 
should  do.  There  he  met  an  idle  journeyman,  who, 
like  himself,  had  lost  his  situation.  A  fellow  feeling  made 
them  communicative  and  confidential. 

"  If  I  was  only  a  single  man,"  said  Logan,  "  I  wouldn't 
care,  I  could  easily  shift  for  myself." 

"  Wife  and  children !  Yes,  there's  the  rub,"  returned 
the  companion.  "A  journeyman  mechanic  is  a  fool  to  get 
married." 

"  Then  you  and  I  are  both  fools,"  said  Logan. 

"  No  doubt  of  it.  I  came  to  that  conclusion,  in  regard 
to  myself,  long  and  long  ago.  Sick  wife,  hungry  chil 
dren,  and  four  or  five  backs  to  cover;  no  wonder  a  poor 
man's  nose  is  ever  on  the  grindstone.  For  my  part,  I  am 
sick  of  it.  When  I  was  a  single  man,  I  could  go  where 
I  pleased,  and  do  what  I  pleased ;  and  I  always  had 
money  in  my  pocket.  Now  I  am  tied  down  to  one  place, 
and  grumbled  at  eternally ;  and  if  you  were  to  shake  me 
from  here  to  the  Navy  Yard,  you  wouldn't  get  a  sixpence 
out  of  rrie.  The  fact  is,  I'm  sick  of  it." 

"  So  am  I.  But  what  is  to  be  done  ?  I  don't  believe 
.1  can  get  work  in  town." 

"I  know  you  can't.  But  there  is  plenty  of  work  and 
good  wages  to  be  had  in  Charleston  or  New  Orleans." 

Logan  did  not  reply ;  but  looked  intently  into  his  com 
panion's  face. 

"  I'm  sure  my  wife  would  be  a  great  deal  better  off  if 
I  were  to  clear  out  and  leave  her.  She  has  plenty  of 
friends,  and  they'll  not  see  her  want." 

Logan  still  looked  at  his  fellow  journeyman. 

"  And  your  wife  would  be  taken  back  under  her  father's 
roof,  where  there  is  enough  and  to  spare.  Of  course  she 
would  be  happier  than  she  is  now." 

"  No  doubt  of  that.  The  old  rascal  has  treated  her 
shabbily  enough.  But  I  am  well  satisfied  that  if  I  were 
out  of  the  way  he  would  gladly  receive  her  back  again." 

"  Of  this  there  can  be  no  question.  So,  it  is  clear,  that 
with  our  insufficient  incomes,  our  presence  is  a  curse 
rather  than  a  blessing  to  our  families." 

Logan  readily  admitted  this  to  be  true.    His  companion 


356  THE      IRON    WILL. 

then  drew  a  newspaper  towards  him,  and  after  running  his 
eyes  over  it  for  a  few  moments,  read  : 

"  This  day,  at  twelve  o'clock,  the  copper  fastened  brig 
Emily,  for  Charleston.  For  freight  or  passage,  apply  on 
board." 

"  There's  a  chance  for  us,"  he  said,  as  he  finished  read 
ing  the  advertisement.  "  Let  us  go  down  and  see  if  they 
won't  let  us  work  our  passage  out." 

Logan  sat  thoughtful  a  moment,  and  than  said,  as  he 
arose  to  his  feet, 

"  Agreed.  It'll  be  the  best  thing  for  us,  as  well  as  for 
our  families." 

When  the  Emily  sailed,  at  twelve  o'clock,  the  two  men 
were  on  board. 

Days  came  and  passed,  until  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Logan 
grew  sick  with  anxiety,  fear  and  suspense.  No  word  was 
received  from  her  absent  husband.  She  went  to  his  old 
employer,  and  learned  that  he  had  been  discharged  ;  but 
she  could  find  no  one  who  had  heard  of  him  since  that 
time.  Left  thus  alone,  with  two  little  children,  and  no 
apparent  means  of  support,  Mrs.  Logan,  when  she  became 
at  length  clearly  satisfied  that  he  for  whom  she  had  given 
up  every  thing,  had  heartlessly  abandoned  her,  felt  as  if 
there  was  no  hope  for  her  in  the  world. 

"  Go  to  your  father  by  all  means,"  urged  the  woman 
with  whom  she  was  still  boarding.  "  Now  that  your  hus 
band  has  gone,  he  will  receive  you." 

"I  cannot,"  was  Fanny's  reply. 

"  But  what  will  you  do?"  asked  the  woman. 

"  Work  for  my  children,"  she  replied,  arousing  herself 
and  speaking  with  some  resolution.  "I  have  hands  to 
work,  and  I  am  willing  to  work." 

"  Much  better  go  home  to  your  father,"  said  the  woman. 

"  That  is  impossible.  He  has  disowned  me.  Has 
ceased  to  love  me  or  care  for  me.  I  cannot  go  to  him 
again ;  for  I  could  not  bear,  as  I  am  now,  another  harsh 
repulse.  No — no — I  will  work  with  my  own  hands.  God 
will  help  me  to  provide  for  my  children." 

In  this  spirit  the  almost  heart-broken  young  woman  for 
whom  the  boarding-house  keeper  felt  more  than  a  common 
interest — an  interest  that  would  not  let  her  thrust  her  out 


THE     IRON     WILL.  357 

from  the  only  place  she  could  call  her  home — sought  for 
work  and  was  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  sewing  from  two 
or  three  families,  and  was  thus  enabled  to  pay  a  light 
board  for  herself  and  children.  But  incessant  toil  with 
her  needle,  continued  late  at  night  and  resumed  early  in 
the  morning,  gradually  undermined  her  health,  which  had 
become  delicate,  and  weariness  and  pain  became  the  con 
stant  companions  of  her  labor. 

Sometimes  in  carrying  her  work  home,  the  forsaken  wife 
would  have  to  pass  the  old  home  of  her  girlhood,  and 
twice  she  saw  her  father  at  the  window.  But  either  she 
was  changed  so  that  he  did  not  know  his  child ;  or  he 
would  not  bend  from  his  stern  resolution  to  disown  her. 
On  these  two  occasions  she  was  unable,  on  returning,  to 
resume  her  work.  Her  fingers  could  not  hold  or  guide 
the  needle  ;  nor  could  she,  from  the  blinding  tears  that 
filled  her  eyes  have  seen  to  sew,  even  if  her  hands  had 
lost  the  tremor  that  ran  through  every  nerve  of  her  body. 

A  year  had  rolled  wearily  by  since  Logan  went  off,  and 
still  no  word  had  come  from  the  absent  husband.  Labor 
beyond  her  bodily  strength,  and  trouble  and  grief  that 
were  too  severe  for  her  spirit  to  bear,  had  done  sad  work 
upon  the  forsaken  wife  and  disowned  child.  She  was  but 
a  shadow  of  her  former  self. 

Mr.  Crawford  had  been  very  shy  of  the  old  Quaker, 
who  had  spoken  so  plainly  to  him ;  but  his  words  made 
some  impression  on  him,  though  no  one  would  have  sup 
posed  so,  as  there  was  no  change  in  his  conduct  towards 
his  daughter.  He  had  forewarned  her  of  the  consequences, 
if  she  acted  in  opposition  to  his  wishes.  He  had  told  her 
that  he  would  disown  her  forever.  She  had  taken  her  own 
way,  and,  painful  as  it  was  to  him,  he  had  to  keep  his 
word — his  word  that  had  ever  been  inviolate.  He  might  for 
give  her;  he  might  pity  her;  but  she  must  remain  a  stranger. 
Such  a  direct  and  flagrant  act  of  disobedience  to  his  wishes 
was  not  to  be  forgotten  nor  forgiven.  Thus,  in  stubborn  pride, 
did  his  hard  heart  confirm  itself  in  its  cold  and  cruel  estrange 
ment.  Was  he  happy  ?  No  !  Did  he  forget  his  child  5 
No.  He  thought  of  her  and  dreamed  of  her,  day  after 
day,  and  night  after  night.  But — he  had  said  it,  and  he 
would  stick  to  it!  His  pride  was  unbending  as  iron. 


358  THE     IRON    WILL. 

Of  the  fact  that  the  husband  of  Fanny  had  gone  off  and 
left  her  with  two  children  to  provide  for  with  the  labor  of 
her  hands,  he  had  been  made  fully  aware,  but  it  did  not 
bend  him  from  his  stern  purpose. 

"  She  is  nothing  to  me,"  was  his  impatient  reply  to  the 
one  who  informed  him  of  the  fact.  This  was  all  that 
could  be  seen.  But  his  heart  trembled  at  the  intelligence. 
Neverthless,  he  stood  coldly  aloof  month  after  month,  and 
even  repulsed,  angrily,  the  kind  landlady  with  whom 
Fanny  boarded,  who  had  attempted,  all  unknown  to  the 
daughter,  to  awaken  sympathy  for  her  in  her  father's  heart. 

One  day  the  old  Friend,  whose  plain  words  had  not 
pleased  Mr.  Crawford,  met  that  gentleman  near  his  own 
door.  The  Quaker  was  leading  a  little  boy  by  the  hand. 
Mr.  Crawford  bowed,  and  evidently  wished  to  pass  on ; 
but  the  Quaker  paused,  and  said — 

"  I  should  like  to  have  a  few  words  with  thee,  friend 
Crawford." 

"  Well,  say  on." 

"  Thee  is  known  as  a  benevolent  man,  friend  Crawford. 
Thee  never  refuses,  it  is  said,  to  do  a  deed  of  charity." 

"I  always  give  something  when  I  am  sure  the  object  is 
deserving." 

"  So  I  am  aware.     Do  you  see  this  little  boy?'' 

Mr.  Crawford  glanced  down  at  the  child  the  Quaker 
held  by  the  hand.  As  he  did  so,  the  child  lifted  to  him 
a  gentle  face,  with  mild  earnest  loving  eyes. 

"  It  is  a  sweet  little  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Crawford,  reach 
ing  his  hand  to  the  child.  He  spoke  with  some  feeling, 
for  there  was  a  look  about  the  boy  that  went  to  his  heart. 

"  He  is,  indeed,  a  sweet  child — and  the  image  of  his 
poor,  sick,  almost  heart-broken  mother,  for  whom  I  am 
trying  to  awaken  an  interest.  She  has  two  children,  and 
this  one  is  the  oldest.  Her  husband  is  dead,  or  what  may 
be  as  bad,  perhaps  worse,  as  far  as  she  is  concerned,  dead 
to  her ;  and  she  does  not  seem  to  have  a  relative  in  the 
world  ,  at  least  none  who  thinks  about  or  cares  for  her. 
In  trying  to  provide  for  her  children,  she  ha-s  overtasked 
her  delicate  frame,  and  made  herself  sick.  Unless  some 
thing  is  done  for  her,  a  worse  thing  must  follow.  She 
must  go  to  the  Alms-house,  and  be  separated  from  her 


THE    IRON    WILL.  359 

children.  Look  into  the  sweet,  innocent  face  of  this  dear 
child,  and  let  your  heart  say  whether  he  ought  to  be  taken 
from  his  m-other.  If  she  have  a  woman's  feelings,  must 
she  not  love  this  child  tenderly ;  and  can  any  one  supply 
to  him  his  mother's  place  ?" 

*  I  will  do  something  for  her,  certainly,"  Mr.  Crawford 
said. 

"  I  wish  thee  would  go  with  me  to  see  her." 

"  There  is  no  use  in  that.  My  seeing  her  can  do  no 
good.  Get  all  you  can  for  her,  and  then  come  to  me.  I 
will  help  in  the  good  work  cheerfully,"  replied  Mr.  Craw 
ford. 

"  That  is  thy  dwelling,  I  believe,"  said  the  Quaker, 
looking  around  at  'a  house  adjoining  the  one  before  which 
they  stood. 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  house,"  returned  Crawford. 

"  Will  thee  take  this  little  boy  in  with  thee,  and  keep 
him  for  a  few  minutes,  while  I  go  to  see  a  friend  some 
squares  off?" 

"Oh,  certainly.  Come  with  me,  dear!"  And  Mr. 
Crawford  held  out  his  hand  to  the  child,  who  took  it  with 
out  hesitation. 

"  I  will  see  thee  in  a  little  while,"  said  the  Quaker,  as 
he  turned  away. 

The  boy,  who  was  plainly,  but  very  neatly  dressed,  was 
about  four  years  old.  He  had  a  more  than  usually  attractive 
face ;  and  an  earnest  look  out  of  his  mild  eyes,  that  made 
every  one  who  saw  him  his  friend. 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  dear  ?"  asked  Mr.  Crawford, 
as  he  sat  down  in  his  parlor,  and  took  the  little  fellow 
upon  his  knee. 

"  Henry,"  replied  the  child.  He  spoke  with  distinct 
ness  ;  and,  as  he  spoke,  there  was  a  sweet  expression  of 
the  lips  and  eyes,  that  was  particularly  winning. 

"  It  is  Henry,  is  it  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  What  else  besides  Henry  ?" 

The  boy  did  not  reply,  for  he  had  fixed  his  eyes  upon  a 
picture  that  hung  over  the  mantle,  and  was  looking  at  it 
intently.  The  eyes  of  Mr.  Crawford  followed  those  of 


360  THE    IRON    WILL. 

the  child,  that  rested,  he  found,  on  the  portrait  of  his 
daughter. 

"  What  else  besides,  Henry  ?"  he  repeated. 

"Henry  Logan,"  replied  the  child,  looking  for  a 
moment  into  the  face  of  Mr.  Crawford,  and  then  turning 
to  gaze  at  the  picture  on  the  wall.  Every  nerve  quivered 
in  the  frame  of  that  man  of  iron  will.  The  falling  of  a 
bolt  from  a  sunny  sky  could  not  have  startled  and  surprised 
him  more.  He  saw  in  the  face  of  the  child,  the  moment 
be  looked  at  him,  something  strangely  familiar  and  attrac 
tive.  What  it  was,  he  did  not,  until  this  instant,  com 
prehend.  But  it  was  no  longer  a  mystery. 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?"  he  asked,  in  a  subdued 
voice,  after  he  had  recovered,  to  some  extent,  his  feelings. 

"  The  child  looked  again  into  his  face,  but  longer  and 
more  earnestly.  Then,  without  answering,  he  turned  and 
looked  at  the  portrait  on  the  wall. 

"  Do  you  know  who  I  am,  dear  ?"  repeated  Mr.  Craw 
ford. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  the  child ;  and  then  again  turned  to 
gaze  upon  the  picture. 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  and  Mr.  Crawford  pointed  to  the  ob 
ject  that  so  fixed  the  little  boy's  attention. 

"My  mother."  And  as  he  said  these  words,  he  laid 
his  head  down  upon  the  bosom  of  his  unknown  relative, 
and  shrunk  close  to  him,  as  if  half  afraid  because  of  the 
mystery  that,  in  his  infantile  mind,  hung  around  the  picture 
on  the  wall. 

Moved  by  an  impulse  that  he  could  not  restrain,  Mr. 
Crawford  drew  his  arms  around  the  child  and  hugged  him 
to  his  bosom.  Pride  gave  way  ;  the  iron  will  was  bent ; 
the  sternly  uttered  vow  was  forgotten.  There  is  power 
for  good  in  the  presence  of  a  little  child.  Its  sphere  of 
innocence  subdues  and  renders  impotent  the  evil  spirits 
that  rule  in  the  hearts  of  selfish  men.  It  was  so  in  this 
case.  Mr.  Crawford  might  have  withstood  the  moving 
appeal  of  even  his  daughter's  presence,  changed  by  grief, 
labor,  and  suffering,  as  she  was.  But  his  anger,  upon  which 
he  had  suffered  the  sun  to  go  down,  fled  before  her  artless, 
confiding,  innocent  child.  He  thought  not  of  Fanny — as 
the  wilful  woman,  acting  from  the  dictate  of  her  own  pas- 


THE     IRON    WILL.  361 

sions  or  feelings ;  but  as  a  little  child,  lying  upon  his 
bosom — as  a  littl»e  child,  singing  and  dancing  around  him 
— as  a  little  child,  with,  to  him,  the  face  of  a  cherub  ;  and 
the  sainted  mother  of  that  innocent  one  by  her  side. 

When  the  Friend  came  for  the  little  boy ;  Mr.  Craw 
ford  said  to  him,  in  a  low  voice — made  low  to  hide  his 
emotion — 

"  I  will  keep  the  child." 

"  From  its  mother  ?" 

"  No.  Bring  the  mother,  and  the  other  child.  I  have 
room  for  them  all." 

A  sunny  smile  passed  over  the  benevolent  countenance 
of  the  Friend  as  he  hastily  left  the  room. 

Mrs.  Logan,  worn  down  by  exhausting  labor,  had  at 
last  been  forced  to  give  up.  When  she  did  give  up,  every 
long  strained  nerve  of  mind  and  body  instantly  relaxed  ; 
and  she  became  almost  as  weak  and  helpless  as  an  infant. 
While  in  this  state,  she  was  accidentally  discovered  by 
the  kind-hearted  old  Friend,  who,  without  her  being  aware 
of  what  he  was  going  to  do,  made  his  successful  attack 
upon  her  father's  feelings.  He  trusted  to  nature  and  a 
good  cause,  and  did  not  trust  in  vain. 

"  Come,  Mrs.  Logan,"  said  the  kind  woman,  with 
whom  Fanny  was  still  boarding,  an  hour  or  so  after  little 
Henry  had  been  dressed  up  to  take  a  walk — where,  the 
the  mother  did  not  know  or  think, — "the  good  Friend, 
who  was  here  this  morning,  says  you  must  ride  out.  He 
has  brought  a  carriage  for  you.  It  will  do  you  good,  I 
know.  He  is  very  kind.  Come,  get  yourself  ready." 

Mrs.  Logan  was  lying  upon  her  bed. 

"  I  do  not  feel  able  to  get  up,"  she  replied.  "I  do  not 
wish  to  ride  out.'* 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  must  go.  The  pure,  fresh  air,  and  the 
change,  will  do  you  more  good  than  medicine.  Come, 
Mrs.  Logan ;  I  will  dress  little  Julia  for  you.  She  needs 
the  change  as  much  as  you  do." 

"  Where  is  Henry  ?"  asked  the  mother. 

"He  has  not  returned  yet.  But,  come !  The  carriage 
is  waiting  at  the  door." 

"  Won't  you  go  with  me?" 

44 


362  THE     IRON    WILL. 

"  I  would  with  pleasure — but  I  cannot  leave  home.  I 
have  so  much  to  do." 

After  a  good  deal  of  persuasion,  Fanny  at  length  made 
the  effort  to  get  herself  ready  to  go  out.  She  was  so  weak, 
that  she  tottered  about  the  floor  like  one  intoxicated.  But 
the  woman  with  whom  she  lived,  assisted  and  encouraged 
her,  until  she  was  at  length  ready  to  go.  Then  the  Quaker 
came  up  to  her  room,  and  with  the  tenderness  and  care  of  a 
father,  supported  her  down  stairs,  and  when  she  had  taken 
her  place  in  the  vehicle,  entered,  with  her  youngest  child 
in  his  arms,  and  sat  by  her  side,  speaking  to  her,  as  he 
did  so,  kind  and  encouraging  words. 

The  carriage  was  driven  slowly,  for  a  few  squares,  and 
then  stopped.  Scarcely  had  the  motion  ceased,  when 
the  door  was  suddenly  opened,  and  Mr.  Crawford  stood 
before  his  daughter. 

"My  poor  child!"  he  said,  in  a  tender,  broken  voice, 
as  Fanny,  overcome  by  his  unexpected  appearance,  sunk 
forward  into  his  arms. 

When  the  suffering  young  creature  opened  her  eyes 
again,  she  was  upon  her  own  bed,  in  her  own  room,  in  her 
old  home.  Her  father  sat  by  her  side,  and  held  one  of 
her  hands  tightly.  There  were  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  he 
tried  to  speak ;  but,  though  his  lips  moved,  there  came 
from  them  no  articulate  sound. 

"  Do  you  forgive  me,  father  ?  Do  you  love  me,  father  ?" 
said  Fanny,  in  a  tremulous  whisper,  half  rising  from  her 
pillow,  and  looking  eagerly,  almost  agonizingly,  into  her 
father's  face. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  murmured  the  father,  as 
he  drew  his  daughter  towards  him,  so  that  her  head  could 
lie  against  his  bosom. 

"  But  do  you  love  me,  father  ?  Do  you  love  me  as  of 
old  ?"  said  the  daughter. 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her;  and  now  the  tears  fell 
from  his  eyes  and  lay  warm  and  glistening  upon  her  face. 

"As  of  old,"  he  murmured,  laying  his  cheek  down 
upon  that  of  his  child,  and  clasping  her  more  tightly  in 
his  arms.  The  long  pent  up  waters  of  affection  were 
rushing  over  his  soul  and  obliterating  the  marks  of  pride, 
anger,  and  the  iron  will  that  sustained  them  in  their  cruel 


THE      IRON     WILL.  363 

dominion.  He  was  no  longer  a  strong  man,  stern  and 
rigid  in  his  purpose  ;  but  a  child,  with  a  loving  and  tender 
heart. 

There  was  light  again  in  his  dwelling ;  not  the  bright 
light  of  other  times;  for  now  the  rays  were  mellowed. 
But  it  was  light.  And  there  was  music  again  ;  not  so 
joyful ;  but  it  was  music,  and  its  spell  over  his  heart  was 
deeper  and  its  influence  more  elevating. 

The  man  with  the  iron  will  and  stern  purpose  was  sub 
dued,  and  the  power  that  subdued  him,  was  the  presence 
of  a  little  child 


A  CUKE  FOE  LOW  SPIRITS. 

A  HOUSEHOLD  SKETCH. 

FROM  some  cause,  real  or  imaginary,  I  felt  low  spirited. 
There  was  a  cloud  upon  my  feelings,  and  I  could  not  smile 
as  usual,  nor  speak  in  a  tone  of  cheerfulness.  As  a  na 
tural  result,  the  light  of  my  countenance  being  gone,  all 
things  around  me  were  in  shadow.  My  husband  was 
sober,  and  had  little  to  say ;  the  children  would  look 
strangely  at  me  when  I  answered  their  questions,  or  spoke 
to  them  for  any  purpose,  and  my  domestics  moved  about 
in  a  quiet  manner,  and  when  they  addressed  me,  did  so 
in  a  tone  more  subdued  than  usual. 

This  re-action  upon  my  state,  only  made  darker  the 
clouds  that  veiled  my  spirits.  I  was  conscious  of  this, 
and  was  conscious  that  the  original  cause  of  my  depres 
sion  was  entirely  inadequate,  in  itself,  to  produce  the  re 
sult  which  had  followed.  Under  this  feeling,  I  made  an 
effort  to  rally  myself,  but  in  vain ;  and  sank  lower  from 
the  very  struggle  to  rise  above  the  gloom  that  over 
shadowed  me. 

When  my  husband  came  home  at  dinner  time,  I  tried  to 
meet  him  with  a  smile ;  but  I  felt  that  the  light  upon  my 
countenance  was  feeble,  and  of  brief  duration.  He  looked 
at  me  earnestly,  and,  in  his  kind  and  gentle  way,  inquired 
if  I  felt  no  better,  affecting  to  believe  that  my  ailment  was  . 
one  of  the  body  instead  of  the  mind.  But  I  scarcely 
answered  him,  and  I  could  see  that  he  felt  hurt.  How 
much  more  wretched  did  I  become  at  this.  Could  I  have 
then  retired  to  my  chamber,  and,  alone,  give  my  full  heart 
vent  in  a  passion  of  tears,  I  might  have  obtained  relief  to 
my  feelings.  But,  I  could  not  do  this. 

While  I  sat  at  the  table,  forcing  a  little  food  into  my 
mouth  for  appearance  sake}  my  husband  said— 

364 


A   CURE   FOR   LOW   SPIRITS.  365 

"You  remember  the  fine  lad  who  has  been  for  some 
time  in  our  store?" 

I  nodded  my  head,  but  the  question  did  not  awaken  in 
my  mind  the  slightest  interest. 

"  He  has  not  made  his  appearance  for  several  days ; 
and  I  learned  this  morning,  on  sending  to  the  house  of 
his  mother,  that  he  was  very  ill." 

"  Ah !"  was  my  indifferent  reponse.  Had  I  spoken 
what  was  in  my  mind,  I  would  have  said — "  I'm  sorry, 
but  I  can't  help  it."  I  did  not,  at  the  moment,  feel  the 
smallest  interest  in  the  lad. 

"Yes,"  added  my  husband,  ""and  the  person  who 
called  to  let  me  know  about  it,  expressed  his  fears  that 
Edward  would  not  get  up  again." 

"  What  ails  him  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  I  did  not  clearly  understand.  But  he  has  fever  of 
some  kind.  You  remember  his  mother  very  well  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  You  know  she  has  worked  for  me.  Edward 
is  her  only  child,  I  believe." 

"  Yes.    And  his  loss  to  her  will  be  almost  every  thing." 

"  Is  he  so  dangerous  ?"  I  inquired,  a  feeling  of  interest 
beginning  to  stir  in  my  heart. 

"  He  is  not  expected  to  live." 

"  Poor  woman !  How  distressed  she  must  be  ?  I  wonder 
what  her  circumstances  are  just  at  this  time.  She  seemed 
very  poor  when  she  worked  for  me." 

"  And  she  is  very  poor  still,  I  doubt  not.  She  has  her 
self  been  sick,  and  during  the  time  it  is  more  than  prob 
able,  that  Edward's  wages  were  all  her  income.  I  am 
afraid  she  has  suffered,  and  that  she  has  not,  now,  the 
means  of  procuring  for  her  sick  boy  things  necessary  for 
his  comfort.  Could  you  not  go  around  there  this  after 
noon,  and  see  how  they  are  ?" 

I  shook  my  head  instantly,  at  this  proposition,  for  sym 
pathy  for  others  was  not  yet  strong  enough  to  expel  my 
selfish  despondency  of  mind. 

"  Then  I  must  step  around,"  replied  my  husband,  "be 
fore  I  go  back  to  the  store,  although  we  are  very  busy  to 
day,  and  I  am  much  wanted  there.  It  would  not  be  right 
to  neglect  the  lad  and  his  mother  under  present  circum 
stances."  "'*'  '• 


366  A    CURE    FOR   LOW    SPIRITS. 

I  felt  rebuked  at  these  words ;  and.  with  a  forced  effort, 
said — 

"  I  will  go." 

"It  will  be  much  better  for  you  to  see  them  than  for 
me,"  returned  my  husband,  "  for  you  can  understand 
their  wants  better,  and  minisler  to  them  more  effectually. 
If  they  need  any  comforts,  I  would  like  you  to  see  them 
supplied." 

It  still  cost  me  an  effort  to  get  ready  ;  but  as  I  had  pro 
mised  that  I  would  do  as  my  husband  wished,  the  effort 
had  to  be  made.  By  the  time  I  was  prepared  to  go  out, 
I  felt  something  better.  The  exertion  I  was  required  to 
make,  tended  to  disperse  slightly  the  clouds  that  hung 
over  me,  and,  as  they  began  gradually  to  move,  my 
thoughts  turned,  with  an  awakening  interest,  toward  the 
object  of  my  husband's  solicitude. 

All  vras  silent  within  the  humble  abode  to  which  my 
e-rrand  led  me.  I  knocked  lightly,  and  in  a  few  moments 
the  mother  of  Edward  opened  the  door.  She  looked  pale 
and  anxious. 

"  How  is  your  son,  Mrs.  Ellis?"  I  inquired,  as  I  step 
ped  in. 

"  He  is  very  low,  ma'am,"  she  replied. 

"  Not  dangerous,  I  hope?" 

"  The  fever  has  left  him,  but  he  is  as  weak  as  an  infant. 
All  his  strength  is  gone." 

"  But  proper  nourishment  will  restore  him,  if  the  disease 
is  broken." 

"  So  the  doctor  says.  But  I'm  afraid  it  is  too  late.  He 
seems  to  be  sinking  every  hour.  Will  you  walk  up  and 
see  him,  ma'am?'' 

I  followed  Mrs.  Ellis  up  stairs,  and  into  the  chamber 
where  the  sick  boy  lay.  I  was  not  surprised  at  the  fear 
she  had  expressed,  when  I  saw  Edward's  pale,  sunken 
face,  and  hollow,  almost  expressionless  eyes.  He  scarcely 
noticed  my  entrance. 

"Poor  boy!"  sighed  his  mother.  "He  has  had  a  very 
sick  spell."  My  liveliest  interest  was  at  once  awakened. 

"  He  has  been  sick  indeed  !"  I  replied,  as  I  laid  my 
hand  upon  his  white  forehead.  I  found  that  his  skin  was 
cold  and  damp.  The  fever  had  nearly  burned  out  the  vital 


A    CURE    FOR   LOW   SPIRITS.  367 

energies  of  his  system.  "  Do  you  give  him  much  nour 
ishment  ? 

"  He  takes  a  little  barley  water." 

"  Has  not  the  doctor  ordered  wine  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am"  replied  Mr.  Ellis,  but  she  spoke  with  an 
air  of  hesitation.  "  He  says  a  spoonful  of  good  wine, 
three  or  four  times  a  day,  would  be  very  good  for  him." 

"  And  you  have  not  given  him  any  ?" 

"No  ma'am," 

"We  have  some  very  pure  wine,  that  we  always  keep 
for  sickness.  If  you  will  step  over  to  our  house,  -and  tell 
Alice  to  give  you  a  bottle  of  it,  I  will  stay  with  Edward 
until  you  return." 

How  brightly  glowed  that  woman's  face,  as  my  words 
fell  upon  her  ears! 

"Oh,  ma'am  you  are  very  kind!"  said  she.  "But  it 
will  be  asking  too  much  of  you  to  stay  here  ! 

"  You  did'nt  ask  it,  Mrs.  Ellis,"  I  smilingly  replied.  "  I 
have  offered  to  stay ;  so  do  you  go  for  the  wine  as  quickly 
as  you  can,  for  Edward  needs  it  very  much." 

I  was  not  required  to  say  more.  In  a  few  minutes  I  was 
alone  with  the  sick  boy,  who  lay  almost  as  still  as  if  death 
were  resting  upon  his  half  closed  eye-lids.  To  some  extent, 
in  the  half  hour  I  remained  thus  in  that  hushed  chamber, 
did  I  realize  the  condition  and  feelings  of  the  poor  mother 
whose  only  son  lay  gasping  at  the  very  door  of  death, 
and  all  my  sympathies  were,  in  consequence,  awakened. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Ellis  returned  with  the  wine,  about  a  tea 
spoonful  of  it  was  diluted,  and  the  glass  containing  it 
placed  to  the  sick  lad's  lips.  The  moment  its  flavor 
touched  his  palate,  a  thrill  seemed  to  pass  through  his  frame, 
and  he  swallowed  eagerly. 

"  It  does  him  good  !"  said  I,  speaking  warmly,  and  from 
an  impulse  of  pleasure  that  made  my  heart  glow. 

We  sat,  and  looked  with  silent  interest  upon  the  boy's 
face,  and  we  did  not  look  in  vain,  for  something  like 
warmth  came  upon  his  wan  cheeks,  and  when  I  placed 
my  hand  again  upon  his  forehead,  the  coldness  and  damp 
ness  was  gone.  The  wine  had  quickened  his  languid 
pulses.  I  staid  an  hour  longer,  and  then  another  spoon 
ful  of  the  generous  wine  was  given.  Its  effect  was  as 


A   CURE    FOR  LOW   SPIRITS. 

marked  as  at  first.  I  then  withdrew  from  the  humble 
home  of  the  widow  and  her  only  child,  promising  to  see 
them  again  in  the  morning. 

When  I  regained  the  street  and  my  thoughts,  for  a 
moment,  reverted  to  myself,  how  did  I  find  all  changed. 
The  clouds  had  been  dispersed — the  heavy  Hand  raised 
from  my  bosom.  I  walked  with  a  freer  step.  Sympathy 
for  others,  and  active  efforts  to  do  others  good,  had  ex 
pelled  the  eril  spirits  from  my  heart ;  and  now  serene 
peace  had  there  again  her  quiet  habitation.  There  was 
light  in  every  part  of  my  dwelling  when  I  re-entered  it, 
and  I  sung  cheerfully,  as  I  prepared,  with  my  own  hands, 
a  basket  of  provisions  for  the  poor  widow. 

When  my  husband  returned  in  the  evening,  he  found 
me  at  work,  cheerfully,  in  my  family,  and  all  bright  and 
smiling  again.  The  effort  to  do  good  to  others  had  driven 
away  the  darkness  from  my  spirit,  and  the  sunshine  was 
again  upon  my  countenance,  and  reflected  from  every 
member  of  my  household. — Lady's  Wreath. 


THREE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR 


THE  CALL. 

"  How  much  salary  do  they  offer  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Carroll 
of  her  husband,  who  was  sitting  near  her  with  a  letter  in 
his  hand.  He  had  just  communicated  the  fact  that  a 

Parish  was  tendered  him  in  the  Village  of  Y ,  distant 

a  little  over  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles. 

"  The  money  is  your  first  thought,  Edith,"  said  Mr. 
Carroll,  half  chidingly,  yet  with  an  affectionate  smile. 

This  remark  caused  a  slight  flush  to  pass  over  the  face 
of  Mrs.  Carroll.  She  replied,  glancing,  as  she  did  so,  to 
wards  a  bed  on  which  lay  three  children. 

"  Is  it  wrong  to  think  of  the  little  ones  whom  God  has 
given  to  us  ?" 

"  Oh,  no !  JBu.t  we  must  believe  that  God  who  calls  us 
to  labor  in  his  vineyard,  will  feed  both  us  and  our  chil 
dren." 

"How  are  we  to  know  that  HE  calls  us,  Edward?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Carroll. 

"  I  hold  the  evidence  in  my  hand.  This  letter  from  the 
vestry  of  Y Parish  contains  the  call." 

"It  may  be  only  the  call  of  man." 

"  Edith ! — Edith  ! — Your  faith  is  weak  ;  weak  almost  as 
the  expiring  flame." 

"  What  do  they  say  in  that  letter?  Will  you  read  it  to 
me." 

"  Oh,  yes."     And  Mr.  Carroll  read— 

"REV.  AND  DEAR  SIR: — Our  Parish  has  been  for  some 
months  without  a  minister.  On  the  recommendation  of 

Bishop ,  we  have  been  led  to  make  you  an  offer  of 

the  vacant  place.     The  members  of  the  church,  generally, 
are  in  moderate  circumstances,  and  we  cannot,  therefore, 

45  369 


370      THREE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR. 

offer  anything  more  than  a  moderate  living.  There  is  a 
neat  little  parsonage,  to  which  is  attached  a  small  garden, 
for  the  use  of  the  minister.  The  salary  is  three  hundred 
dollars.  You  will  find  the  people  kind  and  intelligent,  and 
likewise  prepossessed  in  your  favor.  The  Bishop  has 
spoken  of  you  warmly.  We  should  like  to  hear  from  you 
as  early  as  convenient. 

"  Very  affectionately,  &c.  &c." 

"Three  hundred  dollars!"  said  Mrs.  Carroll  in  a  dis 
appointed  tone. 

"And  the  parsonage,"  added  Mr.  Carroll,  quickly. 

"Equivalent  to  sixty  or  seventy  more." 

"  Equivalent  to  a  hundred  dollars  more,  at  least. 

"  We  are  doing  much  better  here,  Edward." 

"  True !  But  are  we  to  look  to  worldly  advantage 
alone  ?" 

"We  have  a  duty  to  discharge  to  our  children,  which, 
it  seems  to  me,  comes  before  all  other  duties." 

"  God  will  take  care  of  these  tender  lambs,  Edith,  do 
not  fear.  He  has  called  me  to  preach  his  everlasting 
Gospel,  and  I  have  heard  and  answered.  Now  He  points 
to  the  field  of  labor,  and  shall  I  hold  back  because  the 
wages  seem  small  ?  I  have  not  so  learned  my  duty. 
Though  lions  stood  in  the  way,  I  would  walk  in  it  with  a 
fearless  heart.  Be  not  afraid.  The  salvation  of  souls  is  a 
precious  work,  and  they  who  are  called  to  the  labor  will 
not  lack  for  bread." 

"  But  Edward,"  said  the  wife,  in  a  serious  voice,  "  will 
it  be  right  for  us  to  enter  any  path  of  life  blindfold,  as  it 
were  ?  God  has  given  us  reason  for  a  guide  ;  and  should 
we  not  be  governed  by  its  plain  dictate  ?" 

"  We  must  walk  by  faith,  Edith,  and  not  by  sight," 
replied  Mr.  Carroll,  in  a  tone  that  indicated  some  small 
measure  of  impatience. 

"  A  true  faith,  dear  husband !"  said  Mrs.  Carroll  tenderly, 
while  a  slight  suffusion  appeared  about  her  eyes.  "A 
true  faith  is  ever  enlightened  and  guided  by  reason.  When 
reason  plainly  points  the  way,  faith  bids  us  walk  on  with 
unfaltering  steps." 

"  And  does  not  reason  now  point  the  way?"  asked  Mr. 
Carroll. 


THREE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR.      371 

"  I  think  not.  From  our  school  we  receive  nearly  seven 
hundred  dollars ;  and  we  have  not  found  that  sum  too 
large  for  our  support.  I  know  that  I  work  very  hard,  and 
that  I  find  it  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  keep  all  things  com 
fortable." 

"  But  remember  that  we  have  rent  to  pay." 

"  I  know.  Still  a  little  over  five  hundred  dollars  remain. 
And  the  present  offer  is  only  three  hundred.  Edward,  we 
cannot  live  upon  this  sum.  Think  of  our  three  children. 
And  my  health,  you  know,  is  not  good.  I  am  not  so 
strong  as  I  was,  and  cannot  go  through  as  much." 

The  wife's  voice  trembled. 

"Poor,  weak  doubter!"  said  Mr.  Carroll,  in  a  tender, 
yet  reproving  voice.  "  Does  not  He  who  calls  us  to  this 
labor  know  our  wants?  And  is  not  He  able  to  supply 
them  ?  Have  you  forgotten  that  the  earth  is  the  Lord's 
and  the  fullness  thereof  ?  Whose  are  the  cattle  upon  a 
thousand  hills  ?  Did  not  God  feed  Elijah  by  ravens?  Did 
the  widow's  oil  fail  ?  Be  not  doubtful  but  believing,  Edith ! 
And  what  if  we  do  have  to  meet  a  few  hardships,  and 
endure  many  privations?  Are  these  to  be  counted  against 
the  salvation  of  even  one  precious  soul  ?  The  harvest  is 
great,  but  the  laborers  are  few." 

Mrs.  Carroll  knew  her  husband  well  enough  to  be 
assured  that  if  he  believed  it  to  be  his  duty  to  accept 
a  call  from  Lapland  or  the  Indian  Ocean,  he  would  go. 
Yet,  so  strongly  did  both  reason  and  feeling  oppose  the 
contemplated  change,  that  she  could  not  help  speaking 
out  what  was  in  her  mind. 

<c  The  day  of  miracles  is  past,"  she  replied. 

"  We  must  not  expect  God  to  send  us  bread  from 
heaven  if  we  go  into  a  wilderness,  nor  water  from  the  rock, 
if  we  wander  away  to  some  barren  desert.  This  Parish 

of  Y cannot  afford  living  to  any  but  a  single  man, 

and,  therefore,  it  seems  to  me  that  none  but  a  single  man 
should  accept  their  call.  Wait  longer,  Edward.  We 
have  every  comfort  for  our  children,  and  you  are  engaged 
in  a  highly  useful  employment.  When  the  right  field  for 
ministerial  labor  offers,  God  will  call  you  in  a  manner  so 
clear  that  you  need  not  feel  a  doubt  on  the  subject." 
"  I  feel  no  doubt  now,"  said  M?,  <«5c!l.  "I  recognise 


372  THREE    HUNDRED    A   YEAR. 

the  voice  of  my  Master,  and  must  obey.  And  I  will  obey 
without  fear.  Our  bread  will  be  given  and  our  water  sure. 
Ah !  Edith.  If  you  could  only  see  with  me,  eye  to  eye. 
If  you  could  only  take  up  your  cross  hopefully,  and  walk 
by  my  side,  how  light  would  seem  all  the  burden  I  have 
to  bear?" 

Mrs.  Carroll  felt  the  words  of  her  husband  as  a  rebuke. 
This  silenced  all  opposition. 

"I  know  that  I  am  weak  and  fearful,"  she  murmured, 
leaning  her  head  upon  her  husband,  and  concealing  her 
face.  "  But  I  will  try  to  have  courage.  If  you  feel  it  to 
be  your  duty  to  accept  this  call,  I  will  go  with  you ;  and, 
come  what  may,  will  not  vex  your  ears  by  a  complaining 
word.  It  was  only  for  our  little  ones  that  I  felt  troubled." 

"  The  Lord  will  provide,  Edith.  He  never  sends  any 
one  upon  a  journey  at  his  own  cost.  Fear  not :  we  have 
the  God  of  harvest  on  our  side." 

The  will  of  Mr.  Carroll  decided  in  this,  as  in  almost 
every  thing  else.  He  saw  reason  to  accept  the  call,  and 
did  not  therefore,  perceive  any  force  in  his  wife's  objec 
tions. 

The  school,  from  which  a  comfortable  living  had  been 
obtained,  was  given  up  ;  an  old  home  and  old  friends 
abandoned.  Prompt  as  Mr.  Carroll  had  been  to  accept  the 

call  to  Y ,  the  process  of  breaking  up   did  not  take 

place  without  some  natural  feelings  coming  in  to  disturb 
him.  How  he  was  to  support  his  wife  and  children  on 
three  hundred  dollars,  did  not  exactly  appear.  It  had 
cost  him,  annually,  the  sum  of  five  hundred,  exclusive  of 
rent ;  and  no  one  could  affirm  that  he  had  lived  extrava 
gantly.  But  he  dismissed  such  unpleasant  thoughts  by 
saying,  mentally — 

"  Away  with  these  sinful  doubts  !  I  will  not  be  faith- 
iess,  but  believing." 

As  for  Mrs.  Carroll,  who  felt,  in  view  of  the  coming 
trials  and  labor,  that  she  had  but  little  strength  ;  the  parting 
from  the  old  place  where  she  had  known  so  many  happy 
hours,  gave  her  deeper  pain  than  she  had  ever  experienced. 
— Strive  as  she  would,  she  could  not  keep  up  her  spirits. 
She  could  not  feel  any  assurance  for  the  future, — could 
not  put  her  entire  trust  in  Heaven.  To  her  the  hopeful 


THREE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR.      373 

spirit  of  her  husband  seemed  a  blind  confidence,  and  not  a 
rational  faith.  But,  even  while  she  felt  thus,  she  condemned 
herself  for  the  feeling;  and  strove — with  how  little  effect! 
— to  walk  sustainingly  by  the  side  of  her  husband. 


THE  CHANGE. 

Six  months  have  elapsed  since  Mr  Carroll  accepted  the 
call  to  Y .  He  has  preached  faithfully  and  labored  dili 
gently.  That  was  his  part.  And  he  has  received,  quar 
terly,  on  the  day  it  became  due,  his  salary.  That  was 
according  to  the  contract  on  the  other  side.  His  conscience 
is  clear  on  the  score  of  duty ;  and  his  parishioners  are 
quite  as  well  satisfied  that  they  have  done  all  that  is  re 
quired  of  them.  They  offered  him  three  hundred  a  year 
and  the  parsonage.  He  accepted  the  offer;  and,  by  that 
act,  declared  the  living  to  be  adequate  to  his  wants.  If 
he  was  satisfied  they  were. 

"  I  don't  know  how  he  gets  along  on  three  hundred 
dollars,"  some  one,  more  thoughtful  about  such  matters, 
would  occasionally  say.  "It  costs  me  double  that  sum, 
and  my  family  is  no  larger  than  his." 

"  They  get  a  great  many  presents,"  would,  in  all  proba 
bility,  be  replied  to  this.  "  Mr.  A ,  I  know,  sent  them 

a  load  of  wood  some  time  ago ;  a  Mr.  B told  me  that 

he  had  sent  them  a  quarter  of  Jamb  and  a  bushel  of  apples. 
And  I  have,  two  or  three  times,  furnished  one  little  matter 
and  another.  I'm  sure  what  is  given  to  them  will  amount 
to  half  as  much  as  Mr.  Carroll's  salary." 

"  This  makes  a  difference,  of  course,"  is  the  satisfied 
answer.  And  yet,  all  told,  the  presents  received  by  the 
whole  family,  in  useful  articles,  has  not  reached  the  value 
of  twentyfive  dollars  during  six  months.  And  this  has 
been  more  than  abstracted  from  them  by  the  kind  ladies 
of  the  parish,  who  must  needs  visit  and  take  tea  with  the 
minister  as  often  as  convenient. 

Six  months  had  passed  since  the  Rev.  Mr.  Carroll  re 
moved  to  Y .  It  was  mid-winter  ;  and  a  stormy  day 

cljsed  in  with  as  stormy  a  night.  The  rays  which  came 


374      THREE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR. 

through  the  minister's  little  study-window  grew  faint  in  the 
pervading  shadows,  and  he  could  no  longer  see  with 
sufficient  clearness  to  continue  writing.  So  he  went  down 
stairs  to  the  room  in  which  were  his  wife  and  children. 
The  oldest  child  was  a  daughter,  six  years  of  age,  named 
Edith  from  her  mother.  Edward,  between  three  and  four 
years  old,  and  Aggy  the  baby,  made  up  the  number  of 
Mr.  Carroll's  household  treasures.  They  were  all  just  of 
an  age  to  require  their  mother's  attention  in  every  thing. 
As  her  husband  entered  the  room,  Mrs.  Carroll  said — 

"  I'm  glad  you've  come  down,  dear.  I  can't  get  Aggy 
out  of  my  arms  a  minute.  It's  nearly  supper  time,  and  I 
hav'n't  been  able  even  to  put  the  kettle  on  the  fire.  She's 
very  fretful." 

Mr.  Carroll  took  the  baby.  His  wife  threw  a  shawl  over 
her  head,  and  taking  an  empty  bucket  from  the  dresser, 
was  passing  to  the  door,  when  her  husband  said — 

"  Stop,  stop,  Edith  !  You  mus'n't  go  for  water  in  this 
storm.  Here,  take  the  baby." 

"  I  can  go  well  enough,"  replied  Mrs.  Carroll,  and 
before  her  husband  could  prevent  her,  she  was  out  in  the 
blustering  air,  with  the  snowflakes  driving  in  her  face. 

"  Oh,  Edith !  Edith !  Why  will  you  do  so  ?"  said  her 
husband,  as  soon  as  she  came  back. 

"  It's  as  easy  for  me  to  go  as  for  you,"  she  replied. 

"  No  it  isn't,  Edith.  I  am  strong  to  what  you  are.  If 
you  expose  yourself  in  this  way,  it  will  be  the  death  of 
you." 

Mrs.  Carroll  shook  the  snow  from  her  shawl  and  dress, 
and  brushed  it  from  her  shoes,  saying  as  she  did  so — 

"  Oh  no!  a  little  matter  like  this  won't  hurt  me." 

She  then  filled  the  tea-kettle  and  placed  it  over  the  fire. 
After  which  she  set  out  the  table,  and  busied  herself  in 
getting  ready  their  evening  meal.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Carroll 
walked  the  floor  with  Aggy  in  his  arms,  both  looking  and 
feeling  serious  ;  while  the  two  older  children  amused  them 
selves  with  a  picture  book. 

As  the  reader  has  probably  anticipated,  the  "living"  (?) 

at  Y proved  altogether  inadequate    to  the  wants    of 

Mr.  Carroll's  family  ;  and  faith,  confidence,  and  an  abstract 
trust  in  Providence  by  no  means  sufficed  for  its  increase. 


THREE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR.      375 

At  first,  Mrs.  Carroll  had  a  servant  girl  to  help  her  in  her 
household  duties,  as  usual.  But  she  soon  found  that  this 
would  not  do.  A  dollar  and  a  quarter  a  week,  and  the 
cost  of  boarding  the  girl,  took  just  about  one-third  of  their 
entire  income.  So,  after  the  first  three  months,  "  help" 
was  dispensed  with.  The  washing  had  to  be  put  out ; 
which  cost  half  a  dollar,  weekly.  To  get  some  one  in  the 
house  to  iron,  would  cost  as  much  more.  So  Mrs.  Carroll 
took  upon  herself  the  task  of  ironing  all  the  clothes,  in  ad 
dition  to  the  entire  work  of  the  house  and  care  of  her  three 
children. 

For  three  months  this  hard  labor  was  performed  ;  but 
not  without  a  visible  effect.  The  face  of  Mrs.  Carroll 
grew  thinner ;  her  step  lost  its  lightness ;  and  her  voice 
its  cheerful  tone.  All  this  her  husband  saw,  and  saw  with 
intense  pain.  But,  there  was  no  remedy.  His  income 
was  but  three  hundred  dollars  a  year ;  and  out  of  that 
small  sum  it  was  impossible  to  pay  one  hundred  for  the 
wages  and  board  of  a  girl,  and  have  enough  left  for  the 
plainest  food  and  clothing.  There  was,  therefore,  no 
alternative.  All  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  do,  was  done 
by  Mr.  Carroll  to  lighten  the  heavy  burdens  under  which 
his  wife  was  sinking ;  but  it  was  only  a  little,  in  reality, 
that  he  could  do ;  and  he  was  doomed  to  see  her  daily 
wasting  away,  and  her  strength  departing  from  her. 

At  the  time  we  have  introduced  them,  Mrs.  Carroll  had 
begun  to  show  some  symptoms  of  failing  health,  that 
alarmed  her  husband  seriously.  She  had  taken  cold,  which 
was  followed  by  a  dry,  fatiguing  cough,  and  a  more  than 
usual  prostration  of  strength.  On  coming  in  with  her 
bucket  of  water  from  the  well,  as  just  mentioned,  she  did 
not  take  off  her  shoes,  and  brush  away  the  snow  that  had 
been  pressed  in  around  the  tops  against  her  stockings,  but 
suffered  it  to  lie  there  and  melt,  thus  wetting  her  feet.  It 
was  nearly  an  hour  from  the  time  Mr.  Carroll  came  down 
from  his  room,  before  supper  was  ready. — Aggy  was,  by 
this  time,  asleep  ;  so  that  the  mother  could  pour  out  the 
tea  without  having,  as  was  usually  the  case,  to  hold  the 
baby  in  her  arms. 

"  Ain't  you  going  to  eat  anything  ?"  asked  Mr.  Carroll, 


376      THREE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR. 

seeing  that  his  wife,  whose  face  looked  flushed,  only  sipped 
a  little  tea. 

"  I  don't  feel  any  appetite,"  replied  Mrs.  Carroll. 

"But  you'd  better  try  to  eat  something,  dear." 

Just  then  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  On  opening 
it,  Mr.  Carroll  found  a  messenger  with  a  request  for  him 
to  go  and  see  a  parishioner  who  was  ill. 

"  You  can't  go  away  there  in  this  storm,"  said  his  wife, 
as  soon  as  the  messenger  had  retired. 

"  It's  full  a  mile  off." 

"  I  must  go,  Edith,"  replied  the  minister.  "  If  the  dis 
tance  were  many  miles  instead  of  one,  it  would  be  all  the 
same.  Duty  calls." 

And  out  into  the  driving  storm  the  minister  went,  and 
toiled  on  his  lonely  way  through  the  deep  snow  to  reach 
the  bedside  of  a  suffering  fellow  man,  who  sought  spiritual 
consolation  in  the  hour  of  sickness,  from  one  whose  tem 
poral  wants  he  had,  while  in  health,  shown  but  little  inclina 
tion  to  supply.  That  consolation  offered,  he  turned  his 
face  homeward  again,  and  again  breasted  the  unabated 
storm.  He  found  his  wife  in  bed — something  unusual  for 
her  at  ten  o'clock — and,  on  laying  his  hand  upon  her  face, 
discovered  that  she  was  in  a  high  fever.  In  alarm,  he 
went  for  the  doctor,  who  declined  going  out,  but  sent  medi 
cine,  and  promised  to  come  over  in  the  morning. 

In  the  morning  Mrs.  Carroll  was  much  worse,  and 
unable  to  rise.  To  dress  the  children  and  get  breakfast, 
Mr.  Carroll  found  to  be  tasks  of  no  very  easy  performance 
for  him  ;  and  as  soon  as  they  were  completed,  he  called  in 
a  neighbor  to  stay  with  his  wife  while  he  went  in  search  of 
some  one  to  come  and  take  her  place  in  the  family  until 
she  was  able  to  go  about  again  as  usual. 

That  time,  however,  did  not  soon  come.  Weeks  passed 
before  she  could  even  sit  up,  and  then  she  was  so  suscepti 
ble  of  cold,  that  even  the  slightest  draft  of  air  into  the  room 
affected  her ;  and  so  weak,  that,  in  attempting  to  mend  a 
garment  for  one  of  her  children,  the  exertion  caused  her  to 
faint  away. 

When  Mrs.  Carroll  was  taken  sick,  they  had  only  fifteen 
dollars  of  their  quarter's  salary  left.  It  was  but  two  weeks 
since  they  had  received  it,  yet  nearly  all  was  gone,  for 


THREE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR.      377 

twenty-five  dollars,  borrowed  to  meet  expenses  during  the 
last  month  of  the  quarter,  had  to  be  paid  according  to  pro 
mise  :  shoes  for  nearly  every  member  of  the  family  had  to 
be  purchased,  besides  warmer  clothing  for  themselves  and 
children  ;  ai.d  several  little  bills  unavoidably  contracted, 
had  to  be  settled.  The  extra  expense  of  sickness,  added 
to  the  regular  demand,  soon  melted  away  the  trifling  bal 
ance,  and  Mr.  Carroll  found  himself,  with  his  wife  still 
unable  to  leave  her  room — in  fact,  scarcely  able  to  sit  up — 
penniless  and  almost  hopeless. — His  faith  had  grown  weak 
—his  confidence  was  gone — his  spirits  were  broken.  Daily 
he  prayed  for  strength  to  bear  up ;  for  a  higher  trust  in 
Providence ;  for  light  upon  his  dark  pathway. — But  no 
strength  came,  no  confidence  was  created,  no  light  shone 
upon  his  way.  And  for  this  we  need  not  wonder.  It 
was  no  day  of  miracles,  as  his  wife  had  forewarned  him. 
He  had,  as  too  many  do,  hoped  for  sustenance  in  a  field 
of  labor  where  reason  could  find  no  well-grounded  hope. 
He  knew  that  he  could  not  live  on  three  hundred  a  year ; 
yet  he  had  accepted  the  offer,  in  the  vain  hope  that  all 
would  come  out  well! 

The  last  shilling  left  the  hand  of  the  unhappy  minister, 
and  at  least  six  weeks  remained  before  another  quarter's 
salary  became  due.  He  could  not  let  his  family  starve ; 
so,  after  much  thought,  he  finally  determined  to  call  the 
vestry  together,  frankly  state  his  case,  and  tell  his  brethren 
that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  live  on  the  small  sum  they 
allowed. 

A  graver  meeting  of  the  vestry  of  Y parish  had  not 

for  a  long  time  taken  place.  As  for  an  increase  of  salary, 
that  was  declared  to  be  out  of  the  question  entirely.  They 
had  never  paid  any  one  over  three  hundred  dollars,  which, 
with  vthe  parsonage,  had  always  been  considered  a  very 
liberal  compensation.  They  were  very  sorry  for  Mr.  Carroll, 
and  would  advance  him  a  quarter's  salary.  But  all  increase 
was  out  of  the  question.  They  knew  the  people  wrould 
not  hear  to  it.  The  meeting  then  broke  up,  and  the  offi 
cial  members  of  the  church  walked  gravely  away,  while 
Mr.  Carroll  went  home,  feeling  so  sad  and  dispirited,  that 
he  almost  wished  that  he  could  die. 

The  Parish  of  Y was  not  rich;  though  six  hundred 

46 


378      THREE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR. 

dollars  could  have  been  paid  to  a  minister  with  as  little 
inconvenience  to  the  members  as  three  hundred.  But  the 
latter  sum  was  considered  ample ;  and  much  surprise  was 
manifested  when  it  was  found  that  the  new  minister  asked 
for  an  increase,  even  before  the  first  year  of  his  engagement 
had  expired. 

The  face  of  his  wife  had  never  looked  so  pale,  her 
cheeks  so  thin,  nor  her  eyes  so  sunken,  to  the  minister, 
as  when  he  came  home  from  this  mortifying  and  dishearten 
ing  meeting  of  the  vestry.  One  of  those  present  was  the 
very  person  he  had  gone  a  mile  to  visit  on  the  night  of  the 
snow-storm ;  and  he  had  more  to  say  that  hurt  him  than  any 
of  the  rest. 

"  Edith,"  said  Mr.  Carroll,  taking  the  thin  hand  of  his 
wife,  as  he  sat  down  by  her  and  looked  sadly  into  her  face, 
"we  must  leave  here.'' 

"Must  we?  Why?"  she  asked,  without  evincing  very 
marked  surprise. 

"  We  cannot  live  on  three  hundred  a  year." 

"Where  will  we  go?" 

"Heaven  only  knows!     But  we  cannot  remain  here!" 

And  as  the  minister  said  this,  he  bowed  his  head  until 
his  face  rested  upon  the  arm  of  his  wife.  He  tried  to  hide 
his  emotion,  but  Edith  knew  that  tears  were  upon  the 
cheeks  of  her  husband. 


THE  SEQUEL. 

JUST  one  year  has  elapsed,  since  Mr.  Carroll  accepted 
the  call  from  Y .  It  has  been  a  year  of  trouble,  end 
ing  in  deep  affliction. 

When  the  health  of  Mrs.  Carroll  yielded  under  her  too 
heavy  burdens,  it  did  not  come  back  again.  Steadily  she 
continued  to  sink,  after  the  first  brief  rallying  of  her  sys 
tem,  until  it  became  hopelessly  apparent  that  the  time  of  her 
departure  was  near  at  hand.  She  was  too  fragile  a  crea 
ture  to  be  thrown  into  the  position  she  occupied.  Inherit 
ing  a  delicate  constitution,  and  raised  with  even  an  unwise 
tenderness,  she  was  no  more  fitted  to  be  a  pastor's  wife, 


THREE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR.      379 

with  only  three  hundred  a  year  to  live  upon,  than  a  sum 
mer  flower  is  to  take  the  place  of  a  hardy  autumn  plant. 
This  her  husband  should  have  known  and  taken  into  the 
account,  before  he  decided  to  accept  the  call  from  Y . 

When  it  was  found  that  Mrs.  Carroll,  after  partially 
recovering  from  her  first  severe  attack,  began  gradually  to 
sink ;  a  strong  interest  in  her  favor  was  awakened  among 
the  ladies  of  the  congregation,  and  they  showed  her  many 
kind  attentions.  But  all  these  attentions,  and  all  this  kind 
ness,  did  not  touch  the  radical  disability  under  which  she 
was  suffering.  They  did  not  remove  her  too  heavy  weight 
of  care  and  labor.  All  the  help  in  her  family  that  she  felt 
justified  in  employing,  was  a  girl  between  fourteen  and 
fifteen  years  of  age,  and  this  left  so  much  for  her  to  do  in 
the  care  of  her  children,  and  in  necessary  household  duties, 
that  she  suffered  all  the  time  from  extreme  physical  ex 
haustion. 

In  the  just  conviction  of  the  error  he  had  committed, 
and  while  he  felt  the  hopelessness  of  his  condition,  Mr. 
Carroll,  as  has  been  seen,  resolved  to  leave  Y immedi 
ately.  This  design  he  hinted  to  one  of  the  members  of 
his  church. 

"You  engaged  with  us  for  a  year,  did  you  not?"  en 
quired  the  member. 

That  settled  the  question  in  the  mind  of  the  unhappy 
minister.  He  said  no  more  to  any  one  on  the  subject  of 
his  income,  or  about  leaving  the  parish.  But  his  mind 
was  made  up  not  to  remain  a  single  day,  after  his  contract 
had  expired.  If  in  debt  at  the  time,  as  he  knew  he  must 
be,  he  would  free  himself  from  the  incumbrances  by  sell 
ing  a  part  of  his  household  furniture.  Meantime  his  live 
liest  fears  were  aroused  for  his  wife,  as  symptom  after 
symptom  of  a  rapid  decline,  showed  themselves.  That  he 
did  not  preach  as  good  sermons,  nor  visit  as  freely  among 
his  parishioners  during  the  last  three  months  of  the  time 

he  remained  at  Y ,  is  no  matter  of  surprise.  Some, 

more  considerate  than  the  rest,  excused  him  ;  but  others 
complained,  even  to  the  minister  himself.  No  matter.  Mr. 
Carroll  had  too  much  at  home  to  fill  his  heart  to  leave  room 
for  a  troubled  pulsation  on  this  account.  He  was  con 
science-clear  on  the  score  of  obligation  to  his  parishioners. 


380      THREE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR. 

At  last,  and  this  before  the  year  had  come  to  its  close, 
the  drooping  wife  and  mother  took  to  her  bed,  never  again 
to  leave  it  until  carried  forth  by  the  mourners.  We  will 
not  pain  the  reader  by  any  details  of  the  affecting  scenes 
attendant  upon  the  last  few  weeks  of  her  mortal  life ;  nor 
take  him  to  the  bed-side  of  the  dying  one,  in  the  hour  that 
she  passed  away.  To  state  the  fact  that  she  died,  is 
enough — and  painful  enough. 

For  all  this,  it  did  not  occur  to  the  people  of  Y 

that,  in  anything  they  had  been  lacking.  They  had  never 
given  but  three  hundred  a  year  to  a  minister,  and,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  considered  the  sum  as  much  as  a  reason 
able  man  could  expect.  As  for  keeping  a  clergyman  in 
luxury,  and  permitting  him  to  get  rich  ;  they  did  not  think 
it  consistent  with  the  office  he  held,  which  required  self- 
denial  and  a  renouncing  of  the  world.  As  to  how  he 
could  live  on  so  small  a  sum,  that  was  a  question  rarely 
asked ;  and  when  presented,  was  put  to  rest  by  some  back 
handed  kind  of  an  answer,  that  left  the  matter  as  much 
in  the  dark  as  ever. 

Notwithstanding  the  deep  waters  of  affliction  through 
which  Mr.  Carroll  was  required  to  pass,  his  Sabbath  duties 
were  but  once  omitted,  and  that  on  the  day  after  he  had 
looked  for  the  last  time  upon  the  face  of  his  lost  one. 
Four  Sabbaths  more  he  preached,  and  then,  in  accordance 
with  notice  a  short  time  previously  given,  resigned  his 
pastoral  charge.  There  were  many  to  urge  him  with 
great  earnestness  not  to  leave  them ;  but  a  year's  experi 
ence  enabled  him  to  see  clearer  than  he  did  before,  and  to 
act  with  greater  decision.  In  the  hope  of  retaining  him, 
the  vestry  strained  a  point,  and  offered  to  make  the  salary 
three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  But  much  to  their  sur 
prise,  the  liberal  offer  was  refused. 

It  happened  that  the  Bishop  of  the  Diocese  came  to  visit 
Y a  week  before  Mr.  Carroll  intended  taking  his  depar 
ture  with  his  motherless  children,  for  his  old  home,  where 
a  church  had  been  offered  him  in  connexion  with  a  school. 
To  him,  three  or  four  prominent  members  of  the  church 
complained  that  the  minister  was  mercenary,  and  looked 
more  to  the  loaves  and  fishes  than  to  the  duty  of  saving 
souls. 


THREE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR.      381 

"  Mercenary  !"  said  the  Bishop,  with  a  strong  expression 
of  surprise. 

"  Yes,  mercenary,"  repeated  his  accusers. 

"So  far  from  it,"  said  the  Bishop,  warmly,  "he  has 
paid  more  during  the  year,  for  supporting  the  Gospel  in 
Y ,  than  any  five  men  in  the  parish  put  together." 

"Mr  Carroll  has!" 

"  How  much  do  you  give  ?"  addressing  one. 

"  I  pay  ten  dollars  pew  rent,  and  give  ten  extra, 
besides,"  was  the  answer. 

"  And  you,"  speaking  to  another. 

"  The  same." 

"And  you?" 

«  Thirty  dollars,  in  all." 

"  While,"  said  the  Bishop,  speaking  with  increased 
warmth,  "your  minister  gave  two  hundred  dollars." 

This,  of  course,  took  them  greatly  by  surprise,  and  they 
asked  for  an  explanation.. 

"  It  is  given  in  a  few  words,"  returned  the  Biahop. 
"It  cost  him,  though  living  in  the  most  frugal  manner,  five 
hundred  dollars  for  the  year.  Of  this,  you  paid  three  hun 
dred,  and  he  two  hundred  dollars." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Bishop,"  said  one. 

"Plainly,  then  ;  he  was  in  debt  at  the  end  of  the  year, 
two  hundred  dollars,  for  articles  necessary  for  the  health 
and  comfort  of  his  family,  to  pay  which  he  has  sold  a  large 
part  of  his  furniture.  He  was  not  working  for  himself, 
but  for  you,  and,  therefore,  actually  paid  two  hundred  dol 
lars  for  the  support  of  the  Gospel  in  Y ,  while  you 

paid  but  twenty  or  thirty  dollars  apiece.  Under  these  cir 
cumstances,  my  friends,  be  assured  that  the  charge  of 
being  mercenary,  comes  with  an  exceeding  bad  grace. 
Nor  is  this  all  that  he  has  sacrificed.  An  insufficient 
income  threw  upon  his  wife,  duties  beyond  her  strength  to 
bear;  and  she  sunk  under  them.  Had  you  stepped  for 
ward  in  time,  and  lightened  these  duties  by  a  simple  act 
of  justice,  she  might  still  be  living  to  bless  her  husband 
and  children ! — Three  hundred  a  year  for  a  man  with  a 
wife  and  three  children,  is  not  enough ;  and  you  know  it, 
my  brethren !  Not  one  of  you  could  five  on  less  than  dou 
ble  the  sum." 


332  THREE    HUNDRED    A   YEAR. 

This  rebuke  came  with  a  stunning  force  upon  the  ears 
of  men  who  had  expected  the  Bishop  to  agree  with  them 
in  their  complaint,  and  had  its  effect.  On  the  day  Mr. 
Carroll  left  the  village,  he  received  a  kind  and  sympathetic 
letter  from  the  official  members  of  the  church  enclosing  the 
sum  of  two  hundred  dollars.  The  first  impulse  of  his 
natural  feelings  was  to  return  the  enclosure,  but  reflection 
showed  him  that  such  an  act  would  be  wrong;  and  so  he 
retained  it,  after  such  acknowledgments  as  he  deemed  the 
occasion  required. 

Back  to  his  old  home  the  minister  went,  but  with  feel 
ings,  how  different,  alas !  from  those  he  had  experienced 

on  leaving  for  Y .  The  people  among  whom  he  had 

labored  for  a  year,  felt  as  if  they  had  amply  paid  him  for 
all  the  service  he  had  rendered  ;  in  fact  had  overpaid  him, 
as  if  money,  doled  out  grudgingly,  could  compensate  for 
all  he  had  sacrificed  and  suffered,  in  his  effort  to  break  for 
them  the  Bread  of  Life. 

Here  is  one  of  the  phases  of  ministerial  life,  presented 
with  little  ornament  or  attractiveness.  There  are  many 
other  phases,  more  pleasant  to  look  upon,  and  far  more 
flattering  to  the  good  opinion  we  are  all  inclined  to  enter 
tain  of  ourselves.  But  it  is  not  always  best  to  look  upon 
the  fairest  side.  The  cold  reality  of  things,  it  is  needful 

that  we  should  sometimes  see.  The  parish  of  Y , 

does  not,  by  any  means,  stand  alone.  And  Mr.  Carroll  is 
not  the  only  man  who  has  suffered  wrong  from  the  hands 
of  those  who  called  him  to  minister  in  spiritual  things,  yet 
neglected  duly  to  provide  for  the  natural  and  necessary 
wants  of  the  bodv 


I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT. 


MR.  EASY  sat  alone  in  his  counting  room,  one  afternoon, 
in  a  most  comfortable  frame,  both  as  regards  mind  and 
body.  A  profitable  speculation  in  the  morning  had  brought 
the  former  into  a  state  of  great  complacency,  and  a  good 
dinner  had  done  all  that  was  required  for  the  repose  of 
the  latter.  He. was  in  that  delicious,  half  asleep,  half 
awake  condition,  which,  occurring  after  dinner,  is  so  very 
pleasant.  The  newspaper,  whose  pages  at  first  possessed 
a  charm  for  his  eye,  had  fallen,  with  the  hand  that  held  it, 
upon  his  knee.  His  head  was  gently  reclined  backwards 
against  the  top  of  a  high,  leather  cushioned  chair ;  while 
his  eyes,  half  opened,  saw  all  things  around  him  but  im 
perfectly.  Just  at  this  time  the  door  was  quietly  opened, 
and  a  lad  of  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  years,  with  a  pale, 
thin  face,  high  forehead,  and  large  dark  eyes,  entered. 
He  approached  the  merchant  with  a  hesitating  step,  and 
soon  stood  directly  before  him. 

Mr.  Easy  felt  disturbed  at  this  intrusion,  for  so  he  felt  it. 
He  knew  the  lad  to  be  the  son  of  a  poor  widow,  who  had 
once  seen  better  circumstances  than  those  that  now  sur 
rounded  her.  Her  husband  had,  while  living,  been  his 
intimate  friend,  and  he  had  promised  him,  at  his  dying 
hour,  to  be  the  protector  and  adviser  of  his  wife  and 
children.  He  had  meant  to  do  all  he  promised,  but,  not 
being  very  fond  of  trouble,  except  where  stimulated  to 
activity  by  the  hope  of  gaining  some  good  for  himself,  he 
had  not  been  as  thoughtful  in  regard  to  Mrs.  Mayberry  as 
he  ought  to  have  been.  She  was  a  modest,  shrinking, 
sensitive  woman,  and  had,  notwithstanding  her  need  of  a 
friend  and  adviser,  never  called  upon  Mr.  Easy,  or  even 
sent  to  request  him  to  act  for  her  in  any  thing,  except  once. 
Her  husband  had  left  her  poor.  She  knew  little  of  the 
world.  She  had  three  quite  young  children,  and  one,  the 
oldest,  about  sixteen.  Had  Mr.  Easy  been  true  to  his 

383 


334  I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT. 

pledge,  he  might  have  thrown  many  a  ray  upon  her  dark 
path,  and  lightened  her  burdened  heart  of  many  a  doubt 
and  fear.  But  he  had  permitted  more  than  a  year  to  pass 
since  the  death  of  her  husband,  without  having  once  called 
upon  her.  This  neglect  had  not  been  intentional.  His 
will  was  good  but  never  active  at  the  present  moment. 
"  To-morrow,"  or  "  next  week,"  or  "  very  soon,"  he 
would  call  upon  Mrs.  Mayberry  ;  but  to-morrow,  or  next 
week,  or  very  soon,  had  never  yet  come. 

As  for  the  widow,  soon  after  her  husband's  death,  she 
found  that  poverty  was  to  be  added  to  affliction.  A  few 
hundred  dollars  made  up  the  sum  of  all  that  she  received 
after  the  settlement  of  his  business,  which  had  never  been 
in  a  very  prosperous  condition.  On  this,  under  the  exer 
cise  of  extreme  frugality,  she  had  been  enabled  to  live  for 
nearly  a  year.  Then  the  paucity  of  her  little  store  made  it 
apparent  to  her  mind  that  individual  exertion  was  required 
directed  towards  procuring  the  means  of  support  for  her 
little  family.  Ignorant  of  the  way  in  which  this  was  to  be 
done,  and  having  no  one  to  advise  her,  nearly  two  months 
more  passed  before  she  could  determine  what  to  do.  By 
that  time  she  had  but  a  few  dollars  left,  and  was  in  a  state 
of  great  mental  distress  and  uncertainty.  She  then  applied 
for  work  at  some  of  the  shops,  and  obtained  common  sew 
ing,  but  at  prices  that  could  not  yield  her  any  thing  like  a 
support. 

Hiram,  her  oldest  son,  had  been  kept  at  school  up  to 
this  period.  But  now  she  had  to  withdraw  him.  It  was 
impossible  any  longer  to  pay  his  tuition  fees.  He  was 
an  intelligent  lad — active  in  mind,  and  pure  in  his  moral 
principles.  But  like  his  mother,  sensitive,  and  inclined  to 
avoid  observation.  Like  her,  too,  he  had  a  proud  inde 
pendence  of  feeling,  that  made  him  shrink  from  asking  or 
accepting  a  favor,  or  putting  himself  under  an  obligation 
to  any  one.  He  first  became  aware  of  his  mother's  true 
condition,  when  she  took  him  from  school,  and  explained 
the  reason  for  so  doing.  At  once  his  mind  rose  into  the 
determination  to  do  something  to  aid  his  mother.  He  felt 
a  glowing  confidence,  arising  from  the  consciousness  of 
strength  within.  He  felt  that  he  had  both  the  will  and  the 
power  to  act,  and  to  act  efficiently. 


I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT.  335 

"Don't  be  disheartened,  mother,"  he  said,  with  anima 
tion.  "  I  can  and  will  do  something.  I  can  help  you. 
You  have  worked  for  me  a  great  many  years.  Now  I  will 
work  for  you." 

Where  there  is  a  will,  there  is  a  way.  But  it  is  often 
the  case,  that  the  will  lacks  the  kind  of  intelligence  that 
enables  it  to  find  the  right  way  at  once.  So  it  proved  in 
the  case  of  Hiram  Mayberry.  He  had  a  strong  enough 
will,  but  did  not  know  how  to  bring  it  into  activity.  Good, 
without  its  appropriate  truth,  is  impotent.  Of  this  the 
poor  lad  soon  became  conscious.  To  the  question  of  his 
mother — 

"  What  can  you  do,  child !"  an  answer  came  not  so 
readily. 

"  Oh,  I  can  do  a  great  many  things,"  was  easily  said  ; 
but,  even  in  saying  so,  a  sense  of  inability  followed  the 
first  thought  of  what  he  should  do,  that  the  declaration 
awakened. 

The  will  impels,  and  then  the  understanding  seeks  for 
the  means  of  affecting  the  purposes  of  the  will.  In  the 
case  of  young  Hiram,  thought  followed  affection.  He 
pondered  for  many  days  over  the  means  by  which  he  was 
to  aid  his  mother.  But,  the  more  he  thought,  the  more 
conscious  did  he  become,  that,  in  the  world,  he  was  a 
weak  boy.  That  however  strong  might  be  his  purpose, 
his  means  of  action  were  limited.  His  mother  could  aid 
him  but  little.  She  had  but  one  suggestion  to  make,  and 
that  was,  that  he  should  endeavor,  to  get  a  situation  in 
some  store,  or  counting  room.  This  he  attempted  to  do. 
Following  her  direction,  he  called  upon  Mr.  Easy,  who 
promised  to  see  about  looking  him  up  a  situation.  It 
happened,  the  day  after,  that  a  neighbor  spoke  to  him 
about  a  lad  for  his  store — (Mr.  Easy  had  already  forgotten 
his  promise) — Hiram  was  recommended,  and  the  man 
called  to  see  his  mother. 

"  How  much  salary  can  you  afford  to  give  him  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Mayberry,  after  learning  all  about  the  situation,  and 
feeling  satisfied  that  her  son  should  accept  of  it. 

"  Salary,  ma'am  ?"  returned  the  storekeeper,  in  a  tone 
of  surprise.  "We  never  give  a  boy  any  salary  for  the 
first  year.  The  knowledge  that  is  acquired  of  business  is 

47 


386  I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT. 

always  considered  a  full  compensation.  After  the  first 
year,  if  he  likes  us,  and  we  like  him,  we  may  give  him 
seventy-five  or  a  hundred  dollars." 

Poor  Mrs.  Mayberry's  countenance  fell  immediately. 

"  I  wouldn't  think  of  his  going  out  now,  if  it  were  not 
in  the  hope  of  his  earning  something,"  she  said  in  a  dis 
appointed  voice. 

"  How  much  did  you  expect  him  to  earn  ?"  was  asked 
by  the  storekeeper. 

"  I  didn't  know  exactly  what  to  expect.  But  I  supposed 
that  he  might  earn  four  or  five  dollars  a  week." 

"Five  dollars  a  week  is  all  we  pay  our  porter,  an  able 
bodied,  industrious  man,"  was  returned.  "If  you  wish 
your  son  to  become  acquainted  with  mercantile  business, 
you  must  not  expect  him  to  earn  much  for  three  or  four 
years.  At  a  trade  you  may  receive  for  him  barely  a  suffi 
ciency  to  board  and  clothe  him,  but  nothing  more." 

This  declaration  so  dampened  the  feelings  of  the  mother 
that  she  could  not  reply  for  some  moments.  At  length  she 
said — 

"If  you  will  take  my  boy  with  the  understanding,  that, 
in  case  I  am  not  able  to  support  him,  or  hear  of  a  situa 
tion  where  a  salary  can  be  obtained,  you  will  let  him  leave 
your  employment  without  hard  feelings,  he  shall  go  into 
your  store  at  once." 

To  this  the  man  consented,  and  Hiram  Mayberry  went 
with  him  according  to  agreement.  A  few  weeks  passed, 
and  the  lad,  liking  both  the  business  and  his  employer, 
his  mother  felt  exceedingly  anxious  for  him  to  remain. 
But  she  sadly  feared  that  this  could  not  be.  Her  little 
store  was  just  about  exhausted,  and  the  most  she  had  yet 
been  able  to  earn  by  working  for  the  shops,  was  a  dollar 
and  a  half  a  week.  This  was  not  more  than  sufficient  to 
buy  the  plainest  food  for  her  little  flock.  It  would  not  pay 
rent,  nor  get  clothing.  To  meet  the  former,  recourse  was 
had  to  the  sale  of  her  husband's  small,  select  library. 
Careful  mending  kept  the  younger  children  tolerably  decent, 
and  by  altering  for  him  the  clothes  left  by  his  father,  she 
was  able  to  keep  Hiram  in  a  suitable  condition,  to  appear 
at  the  store  of  his  employer. 

Thus  matters  went  on  for  several  months.     Mrs.  May- 


I    LL   SEE    ABOUT   IT.  387 

berry  working  late  and  early.  The  natural  result  was, 
a  gradual  failure  of  strength.  In  the  morning,  when  she 
awoke,  she  would  feel  so  languid  and  heavy,  that  to  rise 
required  a  strong  effort,  and  even  after  she  was  up,  and 
attempted  to  resume  her  labors,  her  trembling  frame  almost 
refused  to  obey  the  dictates  of  her  will.  At  length,  nature 
gave  way.  One  morning  she  was  so  sick  that  she  could 
not  rise.  Her  head  throbbed  with  a  dizzy,  blinding  pain — 
her  whole  body  ached,  and  her  skin  burned  with  fever. 
Hiram  got  something  for  the  children  to  eat,  and  then 
taking  the  youngest,  a  little  girl  about  two  years  old,  into 
th.e  house  of  a  neighbor  who  had  showed  them  some  good 
will,  asked  her  if  she  would  take  care  of  his  sister  until  he 
returned  home  at  dinner  time.  This  the  neighbor  readily 
consented  to  do — promising,  also,  to  call  in  frequently  to 
see  his  mother. 

At  dinner  time  Hiram  found  his  mother  quite  ill.  She 
was  no  better  at  night.  For  three  days  the  fever  raged 
violently.  Then,  under  the  careful  treatment  of  their  old 
family  physician,  it  was  subdued.  After  that  she  gradually 
recovered,  but  very  slowly.  The  physician  said  she  must 
not  attempt  again  to  work  as  she  had  done.  This  injunction, 
was  scarcely  necessary.  She  had  not  the  strength  to  do  so. 

"I  don't  see  what  you  will  do,  Mrs.  Mayberry,"  a 
neighbor  who  had  often  aided  her  by  kind  advice,  said, 
in  reply  to  the  widows  statement  of  her  unhappy  condition. 
"You  cannot  maintain  these  children,  certainly.  And  I 
don't  see  how,  in  your  present  feeble  state,  you  are  going 
to  maintain  yourself.  There  is  but  one  thing  that  I  can 
advise,  and  that  advice  I  give  with  reluctance.  It  is  to 
endeavor  to  get  two  of  your  children  into  some  orphan 
asylum.  The  youngest  you  may  be  able  to  keep  with  you. 
The  oldest  can  support  himself  at  something  or  other." 

The  pale  cheek  of  Mrs.  Mayberry  grew  paler  at  this  pro 
position.  She  half  sobbed,  caught  her  breath,  and  looked 
her  adviser  with  a  strange,  bewildered  stare  in  the  face. 

"  0,  no !  I  cannot  do  that !  I  cannot  be  separated 
from  my  dear  little  children.  Who  will  care  for  them  like 
a  mother?" 

"  It  is  hard,  I  know,  Mrs.  Mayberry.  But  necessity  is 
a  stern  ruler.  You  cannot  keep  them  with  you — that  is 


388  I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT. 

certain.  You  have  not  the  strength  to  provide  them  with 
even  the  coarsest  food.  In  an  asylum,  with  a  kind  matron, 
they  will  be  better  off  than  under  any  other  circum 
stances." 

But  Mrs.  Mayberry  shook  her  head. 

"  No — no — no,"  she  replied — "  I  cannot  think  of  such 
a  thing.  I  cannot  be  separated  from  them.  I  shall  soon 
be  able  to  work  again — better  able  than  before." 

The  neighbor  who  felt  deeply  for  her,  did  not  urge  the 
matter.  When  Hiram  returned  at  dinner  time,  his  face  had 
in  it  a  more  animated  expression  than  usual. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  came  in,  "  I  heard  to 
day  that  a  boy  was  wanted  at  the  Gazette  office,  who 
could  write  a  good  hand.  The  wages  were  to  be  four 
dollars  a  week." 

"  You  did !"  Mrs.  Mayberry  said,  quickly,  her  weak 
frame  trembling,  although  she  struggled  hard  to  be  com 
posed. 

"Yes.  And  Mr.  Easy  is  well  acquainted  with  the 
publisher,  and  could  get  me  the  place,  I  am  sure." 

Then  go  and  see  him  at  once,  Hiram.  If  you  can  secure 
it,  all  will  be  well,  if  not,  your  little  brothers  and  sisters 
will  have  to  be  separated,  perhaps  sent  to  an  orphan 
asylum." 

Mrs.  Mayberry  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
sobbed  bitterly  for  some  moments. 

Hiram  eat  his  frugal  meal  quickly,  and  returned  to  ihe 
store,  where  he  had  to  remain  until  his  employer  went 
home  and  dined.  On  his  return  he  asked  liberty  to  be 
absent  for  half  an  hour,  which  was  granted.  He  then  went 
direct  to  the  counting  room  of  Mr.  Easy,  and  disturbed 
him  as  has  been  seen.  Approaching  with  a  timid  step,  and 
a  flushed  brow,  he  said  in  a  confused  and  hurried  manner — 

"  Mr  Easy  there  is  a  lad  wanted  at  the  Gazette  office." 

"  Well?"  returned  Mr.  Easy  in  no  very  cordial  tone. 

"  Mother  thought  you  would  be  kind  enough  to  speak  to 

Mr.  G for  me." 

"  Havn't  you  a  place  in  a  store?" 
"  Yes  sir.     But  I  don't  get  any  wages.     And  at  the 
Gazette  office  they  will  pay  four  dollars  a  week." 


I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT.  389 

"  But  the  knowledge  of  business  to  be  gained  where 
you  are,  will  be  worth  a  great  deal  more  than  four  dollars 
a  week." 

"  I  know  that,  sir.  But  mother  is  not  able  to  board  and 
clothe  me.  I  must  earn  something." 

"Oh,  aye,  that's  it.  Very  well,  I'll  see  about  it  for 
you." 

"  When  shall  I  call,  sir?"  asked  Hiram. 

"  When  ?  Oh,  almost  any  time.  Say  to-morrow  or  next 
day." 

The  lad  departed,  and  Mr.  Easy's  head  fell  back  upon 
the  chair,  the  impression  which  had  been  made  upon  his 
mind  passing  away  almost  as  quickly  as  writing  upon 
water. 

With  anxious  trembling  hearts  did  Mrs.  Mayberry  and 
her  son  wait  for  the  afternoon  of  the  succeeding  day.  On 
the  success  of  Mr.  Easy's  application,  rested  all  their  hopes. 
Neither  she  nor  Hiram  eat  over  a  few  mouthfuls  at  dinner 
time.  The  latter  hurried  away,  and  returned  to  the  store, 
there  to  wait  with  trembling  eagerness  until  his  employer 
should  return  from  dinner,  and  he  again  be  free  to  go  ana 
see  Mr.  Easy. 

To  Mrs.  Mayberry,  the  afternoon  passed  slowly.  She 
had  forgotten  to  tell  her  son  to  return  home  immediately, 
if  the  application  should  be  successful.  He  did  not  come 
back,  and  she  had,  consequently,  to  remain  in  a  state  of 
anxious  suspense  until  dark.  He  came  in  at  the  usual 
hour.  His  dejected  countenance  told  of  disappointment. 

"  Did  you  see  Mr.  Easy  ?"  Mrs.  Mayberry  asked,  in  a 
low  troubled  voice. 

"  Yes.  But  he  hadn't  been  to  the  Gazette  office.  He 
said  he  had  been  very  busy.  But  that  he  would  see  about 
it  soon." 

Nothing  more  was  said.  The  mother  and  son,  after 
sitting  silent  and  pensive  during  the  evening,  retired  early 
to  bed.  On  the  next  day,  urged  on  by  his  anxious  desire 
to  get  the  situation  of  which  he  had  heard,  Hiram  again 
called  at  the  counting  room  of  Mr.  Easy,  his  heart  trembling 
with  hope  and  fear.  There  were  two  or  three  men  present. 
Mr.  Easy  cast  upon  him  rather  an  impatient  look  as  he 
entered.  His  appearance  had  evidently  annoyed  the  mcr- 


390  I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT. 

chant.  Had  he  consulted  his  feelings,  he  would  have 
retired  at  once.  But  that  was  too  much  at  stake.  Gliding 
to  a  corner  of  the  room,  he  stood,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
and  a  look  of  anxiety  upon  his  face,  until  Mr.  Easy  was 
disengaged.  At  length  the  gentlemen  with  whom  he  was 
occupied  went  away,  and  Mr.  Easy  turned  towards  the 
boy.  Hiram  looked  up  earnestly  in  his  face. 

"  I  have  really  been  so  much  occupied  my  lad,"  the 
merchant  said,  in  a  kind  of  apologetic  tone,  "  as  to  have 
entirely  forgotten  my  promise  to  you.  But  I  will  see  about 
it.  Come  in  again,  to-morrow." 

Hiram  made  no  answer,  but  turned  with  a  sigh  towards 
the  door.  The  keen  disappointment  expressed  in  the  boy's 
face,  and  the  touching  quietness  of  his  manner,  reached 
the  feelings  of  Mr.  Easy.  He  was  not  a  hard  hearted  man, 
but  selfishly  indifferent  to  others.  He  could  feel  deeply 
enough  if  he  would  permit  himself  to  do  so.  But  of  this 
latter  failing  he  was  not  often  guilty. 

"  Stop  a  minute,"  he  said.  And  then  stood  in  a  musing 
attitude  for  a  moment  or  two.  "  As  you  seem  so  anxious 
about  this  matter,"  he  added,  "if  you  will  wait  here  a  little 
while,  I  will  step  down  to  see  Mr.  G at  once." 

The  boy's  lace  brightened  instantly.  Mr.  Easy  saw  the 
effect  of  what  he  said,  and  it  made  the  task  he  was  about 
entering  upon  reluctantly,  an  easy  one.  The  boy  waited 
for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  so  eager  to  know  the  result 
that  he  could  not  compose  himself  to  sit  down.  The  sound 
of  Mr.  Easy's  step  at  the  door  at  length  made  his  heart 
bound.  The  merchant  entered.  Hiram  looked  into  his 
face.  One  glance  was  sufficient  to  dash  every  dearly 
cherished  hope  to  the  ground. 

UI  am  sorry,"  Mr.  Easy  said,  "but  the  place  was  filled 
this  morning.  I  was  a  little  too  late". 

The  boy  was  unable  to  control  his  feelings.  The  disap 
pointment  was  too  great.  Tears  gushed  from  his  eyes,  as  he 
turned  away  and  left  the  counting-room  without  speaking. 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  done  wrong,"  said  Mr.  Easy  to  him 
self,  as  he  stood,  in  a  musing  attitude,  by  his  desk,  about 
five  minutes  after  Hiram  had  left.  "  If  I  had  seen  about 
the  situation  when  he  first  called  upon  me,  I  might  have 
secured  it  for  him.  But  it's  too  late  now." 


I'LL    SEE    ABOUT   IT.  391 

After  saying  this  the  merchant  placed  his  thumbs  in  the 
arm-holes  of  his  waistcoat,  and  commenced  walking  the 
floor  of  his  counting  room  backwards  and  forwards.  He 
•could  not  get  out  of  his  mind  the  image  of  the  boy  as  he 
turned  from  him  in  tears,  nor  drive  away  thoughts  of  the 
friend's  widow  whom  he  had  neglected.  This  state  of 
mind  continued  all  the  afternoon.  Its  natural  effect  was 
to  cause  him  to  cast  about  in  his  mind  for  some  way  of 
getting  employment  for  Hiram  that  would  yield  immediate 
returns.  But  nothing  presented  itself. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  couldn't  make  room  for  him  here?"  he 
at  length   said — "He  looks  like  a  bright  boy.     I  know 

Mr. is  highly  pleased  with  him.     He  spoke  of  getting 

four  dollars  a  week.  That's  a  good  deal  to  give  to  a  mere 
lad.  But,  I  suppose  I  might  make  him  worth  that  to  me. 
And  now  I  begin  to  think  seriously  about  the  matter,  I 
believe  I  cannot  keep  a  clear  conscience  and  any  longer 
remain  indifferent  to  the  welfare  of  my  old  friend's  widow 
and  children.  I  must  look  after  them  a  little  more  closely 
than  I  have  heretofore  done." 

This  resolution  relieved  the  mind  of  Mr.  Easy  a  good 
deal. 

When  Hiram  left  the  counting  room  of  the  merchant,  his 
spirits  were  crushed  to  the  very  earth.  He  found  his  way- 
back,  how  he  hardly  knew,  to  his  place  of  business,  and 
mechanically  performed  the  tasks  allotted  him,  until  evening. 
Then  he  returned  home,  reluctant  to  meet  his  mother, 
and  yet  anxious  to  relieve  her  state  of  suspense,  even,  if 
tn  doing  so,  he  should  dash  a  last  hope  from  her  heart. 
When  he  came  in  Mrs.  Mayberry  lifted  her  eyes  to  his, 
inquiringly ;  but  dropped  them  instantly — she  needed  no 
words  to  tell  her  that  he  had  suffered  a  bitter  disappoint 
ment. 

"  You  did  not  get  the  place  ?"  she  at  length  said,  with 
forced  composure. 

"  No — It  was  taken  this  morning.  Mr.  Easy  promised 
to  see  about  it.  But  he  didn't  do  so.  When  he  went 
this  afternoon,  it  was  too  late." 

Hiram  said  this  with  a  trembling  voice  and  lips  that 
quivered. 

"  Thy  will  be  done !"  murmured  the  widow,  lifting  her 


392  I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT. 

eyes  upwards.  "  If  these  tender  ones  are  to  be  taken  from 
1heir  mother's  fold,  oh,  do  thou  temper  for  them  the  piercing 
blast,  and  be  their  shelter  amid  the  raging  tempests." 

A  tap  at  the  door  brought  back  the  thoughts  of  Mrs. 
Mayberry.  A  brief  struggle  with  her  feelings  enabled  her 
to  overcome  them  in  time  to  receive  a  visitor  with  com 
posure.  It  was  the  merchant. 

"Mr.  Easy!"  she  said  in  surprise. 

"Mrs.  Mayberry,  how  do  you  do!"  There  was  some 
restraint  and  embarrassment  in  his  manner.  He  was  con 
scious  of  having  neglected  the  widow  of  his  friend,  before 
he  came.  The  humble  condition  in  which  he  found  her, 
quickened  that  consciousness  into  a  sting. 

"  I  am  sorry,  madam,"  he  said  after  he  had  become 
seated  arid  made  a  few  inquiries,  "  that  I  did  not  get  the 
place  for  your  son.  In  fact,  I  am  to  blame  in  the  matter. 
But,  I  have  been  thinking  since  that  he  would  suit  me 
exactly,  and  if  you  have  no  objections,  I  will  take  him  and 
pay  him  a  salary  of  two  hundred  dollars  for  the  first  year. 

Mrs.  Mayberry  tried  to  reply,  but  her  feelings. were  too 
much  excited  by  this  sudden  and  unlooked  for  proposal, 
to  allow  her  to  speak  for  some  moments.  Even  then  her 
assent  was  made  with  tears  glistening  on  her  cheeks. 

Arrangements  were  quickly  made  for  the  transfer  of 
Hiram  from  the  store  where  he  had  been  engaged,  to  the 
counting  room  of  Mr.  Easy.  The  salary  he  received  was 
just  enough  to  enable  Mrs.  Mayberry,  with  what  she  her 
self  earned,  to  keep  her  little  together,  until  Hiram,  who 
proved  a  valuable  assistant  in  Mr.  Easy's  business,  could 
command  a  larger  salary,  and  render  her  more  important 
hid. 


THE   FIERY   TRIAL. 


"  THE  amount  of  that  bill,  if  you  please,  sir." 

The  man  thus  unceremoniously  addressed,  lifted  his 
eyes  from  the  ledger,  over  which  he  had  been  bending 
for  the  last  six  hours,  with  scarcely  the  relaxation  of  a 
moment,  and  exhibited  a  pale,  care-worn  countenance — 
and,  though  still  young,  a  head  over  which  were  thickly 
scattered  the  silver  tokens  of  age.  A  sad  smile  played 
over  his  intelligent  features,  a  smile  meant  to  shake  the 
sternness  of  the  man  who  was  troubling  his  peace,  as  he 
replied  in  a  low,  calm  voice — 

"  To-day,  it  will  be  impossible,  sir." 

"  And  how  many  times  have  you  given  me  the  same 
answer.  I  cannot  waste  my  time  by  calling  day  after 
day,  for  so  paltry  a  sum." 

A  flush  passed  over  the  fine  countenance  of  the  man 
thus  rudely  addressed.  But  he  replied  in  the  same  low 
tone,  which  now  slightly  trembled : 

"  I  would  not  ask  you  to  call,  sir,  if  I  had  the  money 
But  what  I  have  not,  I  cannot  give." 

"  And  pray  when  will  you  have  the  money?" 

The  man  paused  for  some  time,  evidently  calculating 
the  future,  and  after  a  long-drawn  sigh,  as  if  disappointed 
with  the  result,  said : — - 

"  It  will  be  two  or  three  months,  before  I  can  pay  it 
and  even  then,  it  will  depend  on  a  contingency." 

"  Two  or  three  months  ? — a  contingency  1  It  must  come 
quicker  and  surer  than  that,  sir." 

"  That 'is  the  best  I  can  say." 

"  But  not  the  best  I  can  do,  I  hope. — Good-morning." 

After  the  collector  had  gone,  the  man  bent  his  head 
down,  until  his  face  rested  even  upon  the  ponderous 
volume  over  which  he  had  been  poring  for  hours.  He 
thought,  and  thought,  but  thought  brought  no  relief.  The 

48  393 


394  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

most  he  could  earn  was  ten  dollars  a  week,  and  for  his 
children,  two  sweet  babes,  and  for  the  comfort  of  a  sick 
wife,  he  had  to  expend  the  full  sum  of  his  wages.  The 
debt  for  which  he  was  now  troubled,  was  a  rent-bill  of 
forty  dollars,  held  against  him  by  a  man  whose  annual 
income  was  twenty  thousand  dollars.  Finally,  he  con 
cluded  to  go  and  see  Mr.  Moneylove,  and  try  to  prevail 
upon  him  to  stop  any  proceedings  that  the  collector  might 
institute  against  him.  In  the  evening,  he  sought  the 
dwelling  of  his  rich  creditor,  and  after  being  ushered  into 
his  splendid  parlour,  waited  with  a  troubled  heart  for  his 
appearance.  Mr.  Moneylove  entered. 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?" 

"  How  do  you  do  ?"  replied  the  debtor,  in  a  low,  trou 
bled  voice. 

The  manner  of  Mr.  Moneylove  changed,  the  moment 
he  heard  the  peculiar  tone  of  his  voice,  although  he  did 
not  know  him.  There  was  an  appealing  language  in  its 
cadence  that  whispered  a  warning  to  his  ear,  and  he 
closed  his  heart  on  the  instant. 

1  Well,  sir,"  were  his  next  words,  "  what  is  your  will  ?" 
You  hold  a  bill  against  me  for  rent." 

'  Well,  sir,  go  to  my  agent." 

I  have  seen  Mr. ." 

1  That  will  do,  sir.     He  knows  all  about  my  business, 
and  will  arrange  to  my  entire  satisfaction." 

"  But,  sir,  I  cannot  pay  it  now,  and  he  threatens  harsh 
measures." 

"  I  have  entire  confidence  in  his  judgment,  sir,  and  am 
willing  to  leave  all  such  matters  to  his  discretion." 

"  I  am  in  trouble,  sir,  and  in  poverty  beside,  for  the 
demands  on  me  are  greater  than  I  can  meet." 

"  Your  own  fault,  I  suppose,"  retorted  the  landlord, 
with  a  sneer.  "  That,  any  one  might  know,  who  took 
half  a  glance  at  you." 

This  remark  caused  the  blood  to  mount  suddenly  to 
he  face  of  the  man. 

"  Let  me  be  judged  by  what  I  am,  not  by  what  I  have 
been,"  was  the  meek  reply,  after  the  troubled  pause  of  a 
few  moments.  Then  in  a  more  decided  tone  of  voice,  he 
said : — 

"  Will  you  not  interfere  ?" 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  395 

«<  Will  I?  No !  I  never  interfere  with  my  agent.  He 
gives  me  entire  satisfaction,  and  while  he  does  so,  I  shall 
not  interfere."  And  Mr.  Moneylove  smiled  with  self- 
satisfaction  at  the  idea  of  his  careful  and  thrifty  agent, 
and  his  own  worldly  policy. 

The  petitioner  slowly  left  the  house  —  murmuring  to 
himself:  "  Forgive  us  our  debts  as  ice  forgive  our  debtors." 
It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  he  could  compose  his 
mind  sufficiently  to  be  able  to  meet  his  wife  with  a  coun 
tenance  that  was  not  too  deeply  shadowed  with  care. 
She  was  ill,  and  besides,  under  the  pressure  of  many 
causes,  was  suffering  from  a  nervous  lowness  of  spirits.' 
Against  this  depression,  her  husband  saw  that  she  was 
striving  with  all  the  mental  energy  she  possessed,  but 
striving  almost  in  vain.  To  know  that  she  even  had 
cause  for  the  exercise  of  such  an  internal  power,  was,  to 
him,  painful  in  the  extreme ;  and  he  was  bitter  in  his  self- 
reproaches  for  being  the  cause  of  suffering  to  one  he  loved 
with  a  pure  and  fervent  love. 

Turning,  at  last,  resolutely  towards  his  dwelling,  and 
striving  with  a  strong  effort  to  keep  down  the  troubles 
that  were  sweeping  in  rough  waves  over  his  spirit;  it 
was  not  long  before  he  set  his  foot  upon  his  own  door- 
stone. 

To  give  force  to  this  scene,  and  to  throw  around  what 
follows  its  true  interest,  it  will  be  necessary  to  go  back 
and  sketch  some  things  in  the  history  of  the  individual 
here  introduced. 

His  name  was  Theodore  Wilmer.  In  earlier  years,  he 
was  clerk  in  the  large  mercantile  house  of  Rensselaer, 
Wykoff  &  Co.,  in  New  York.  Being  a  young  man  of 
intelligence,  good  address,  and  good  principles,  he  was, 
much  esteemed,  and  valued  by  his  employers,  who  took 
some  pains  to  introduce  him  into  society.  In  this  way  he 
was  brought  into  contact  with  some  of  the  first  families 
in  New  York,  and,  in  this  way,  he  became  acquainted 
with  Constance  Jackson,  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  mer 
chant.  Constance  was  truly  a  lovely  girl,  and  one  for 
whom  Theodore  soon  began  to  entertain  feelings  akin  to 
love. 

Mr.  Jackson,  (the  father  of  Constance,)  was  the  son  of 
a  man  who  had  begun  life  in  New  York,  at  the  very  bot- 


396  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

torn  of  fortune's  wheel.  He  was  a  native  of  Ireland,  and 
came  to  this  country  very  poor.  For  some  years,  with 
his  pack  on  his  back,  he  gained  a  subsistence  by  vending 
dry-goods,  and  unimportant  trifles,  through  the  counties 
and  small  towns  in  the  vicinity  of  New  York.  Gradually 
he  laid  up  dollar  after  dollar,  until  he  was  able  to  open  a 
very  small  shop  in  Maiden  Lane,  a  kind  of  t'hread-and- 
needle  store.  Careful  in  his  purchases,  and  constant  in 
his  attendance  on  business,  he  soon  began  to  find  his  tens 
counting  hundreds;  and  but  few  years  rolled  away,  before 
his  hundreds  began  to  grow  into  thousands.  After  a  while 
he  took  a  larger  store,  and  suddenly  became  known,  and 
respected  as  "  a  merchant."  At  the  end  of  twenty  years 
from  the  time  he  carried  his  pack  out  of  New  York,  he 
could  write  himself  worth  fifty  thousand  dollars.  Suc 
cess  continued  to  crown  his  efforts  in  business,  and  when 
his  children  came  on  the  stage  of  active  life,  they  were 
raised  to  consider  themselves  as  far  superior  to  mere 
mechanics,  or  those  who  had  to  labour  for  their  daily 
bread. 

The  father  of  Constance  was  the  eldest  son  of  old  Mr. 
Jackson,  and  inherited  from  him  a  large  share  of  haughty 
pride.  His  wife  was  out  of  a  family  with  notions  equally 
aristocratic.  Constance  was  their  only  child,  and  they 
had  bestowed  no  little  care  in  endeavouring  to  make  her 
the  most  accomplished  young  lady  in  New  York.  They 
loved  her  tenderly,  but  pride  divided  with  affection  their 
interest  in  her.  She  had  already  declined  the  hands  of 
two  young  men  of  the  first  families  in  the  city,  much  to 
the  displeasure  of  both  her  parents,  when  she  met  Theo 
dore  Wilmer,  who  resided  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Wykoff, 
partner  in  the  house  that  employed  the  young  man  in  the 
capacity  of  clerk.  In  this  family,  Constance  visited 
regularly,  and  the  intimacy  which  sprung  up  between  the 
young  couple,  had  a  chance  of  maturing  into  a  more  per 
manent  affection,  before  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Jackson  had  the 
slightest  suspicion  of  such  an  event.  Indeed,  the  first 
knowledge  they  had  of  the  real  state  of  affairs  was  obtain 
ed  through  Wilmer  himself,  in  the  form  of  an  application 
for  the  hand  of  their  daughter.  It  was  made  to  Mr. 
Jackson,  on  whom  it  fell  with  the  unexpected  suddenness 
of  a  flash  from  a  clear  sky  in  June. 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  397 

"  And  pray,  sir,  who  are  you  ?"  was  his  hasty  and  ex 
cited  answer. 

"  Theodore  Wilmer,  clerk  in  the  house  of  Rensselaer, 
Wykoff  &  Co." 

"Are  you  really  in  earnest,  young  man?"  said  Mr. 
Jackson,  in  a  calmer  voice,  though  his  lips  trembled  with 
suppressed  anger. 

'  Never  more  so  in  my  life,  sir." 

'  And  does  my  daughter  know  of  this  application?" 

'  She  does." 

'  And  is  it  made  by  her  consent?" 

'  Of  course." 

The  calm,  and  "  of  course"  manner  of  the  young  man 
was  more  than  the  patience  of  Jackson  coXild  withstand. 
Hardly  able  to  contain  the  indignation  that  swelled  within 
him,  at  the  presumption  of  an  unknown  clerk,  thus  to  ask 
the  hand  of  his  daughter,  he  paused  but  a  moment,  and 
then  seizing  Wilmer  by  the  shoulder,  and  looking  him 
steadily  in  the  face,  while  he  almost  foamed  with  anger, 
replied  thus  to  his  last  admission: — 

"  If  that  headstrong  girl  has  dared  to  place  her  thoughts 
on  you,  obscure  underling !  and  dared,  as  you  say,  to 
consent  to  accept  you,  I  will  cut  her  off  this  hour  from 
fortune  and  affection.  I  will  cast  her  loose  upon  the 
world  as  unworthy.  Go  —  go  —  and  never  presume  to 
come  again  into  my  presence  !" 

Opposition,  denial,  he  had  expected ;  but  nothing  like 
this.  He  had  hoped  that  when  the  parents  saw  a  fixed 
resolution  on  the  part  of  Constance  to  accept  none  other, 
that  gradually  opposition  would  be  worn  away.  Such  a 
termination  he  now  saw  to  be  hopeless. 

The  father  did  not  seek  an  immediate  interview  with 
his  child.  Before  meeting  her,  he  had  found  time  to 
reflect  upon  the  real  position  of  affairs.  He  was  well 
enough  taught  in  the  theory,-at  least,  of  a  woman's  affec 
tions.  He  had  heard  of  instances  where  opposition  in  a 
love  affair  had  only  added  fuel  to  the  flame ;  and  one  or 
two  such  cases  had  fallen  under  his  own  eye.  He,  there 
fore,  decided  to  make  no  present  show  of  opposition,  and 
on  no  consideration  to  allow  her  to  know  of  the  interview 
that  had  occurred  between  her  lover  and  himself.  Mrs. 
Jackson,  entering  into  her  husband's  view  and  feelings, 


399  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

took  upon  herself  the  task  of  watching  and  silently  con 
trolling  all  the  movements  of  her  daughter.  Particular 
care  was  taken  to  prevent  her  visiting  the  family  of  Mr 
Wykoff. 

"Where  are  you  going,  love?"  said  her  mother,  to  he. 
the  next  day  after  that  of  the  interview,  as  Constance 
came  out  of  her  room,  dressed  for  a  walk. 

"  I  promised  to  walk  with  Laura  Wykoff,  ma,  and  an- 
going  to  call  for  her." 

"  1  was  just  going  to  send  for  you  to  dress  for  a  walk 
•with  me  ;  I  want  to  make  a  call  to-day  on  Madame  Boyer. 
And  this  afternoon  I  am  to  spend  with  Mrs.  Claxton  and 
her  five  daughters,  and  you  must  go  along,  of  course. 
So  you  will  have  to  postpone  your  walk  with  Laura  to 
day." 

If  it  had  only  been  the  walk  with  Laura  Wykoff,  Con 
stance  would  not  have  hesitated  a  moment,  but  her  heart 
almost  ached  with  suspense  to  know  from  Theodore  the 
result  of  his  interview  with  her  father.  He  had  promised 
to  leave  a  note  for  her  with  Laura,  who  was  their  mutual 
confidante.  The  mother,  of  course,  noticed  an  air  of 
regret  at  her  disappointment,  and  ingeniously  remarked — 

"  So  you  would  rather  walk  with  Miss  Wykoff,  than 
your  mother?" 

The  tears  started  into  the  eyes  of  Constance,  and 
twining  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  her  mother,  she 
murmured, 

"  No,  no,  dear  mother !    How  could  you  think  so  ?" 

Hiding  her  anxious  desire  to  know  the  result  of  that 
interview  upon  which  hung  her  fate,  she  passed  with 
apparent  cheerfulness  through  the  weary  day;  and  late 
at  night  sought  her  pillow  from  which  sleep  had  fled. 

On  the  next  morning,  much  to  her  distress  of  mind, 
she  learned  that  a  visit  of  a  few  weeks  to  a  relation  in 
Albany  had  been  suddenly  determined  upon,  and  that  in 
company  with  her  mother  she  had  to  set  off  in  the  first 
boat  that  day.  Her  suspicions  were  at  once  roused  as  to 
the  real  cause  for  this  hasty  movement,  and  she  determin 
ed  to  write  to  Theodore  immediately  on  her  arrival  at 
Albany. 

The  beautiful  scenery  of  the  Hudson  was  unappreciat 
ed  by  one  eye  of  the  many  brilliant  ones  that  looked  out 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  399 

from  the  majestic  boat,  that,  in  the  language  of  Carlyle, 
"  travelled  on  fire-wings,"  through  the  looming  highlands. 
The  watchful  mother  strove  hard  to  divert  the  mind  of 
her  child,  but  in  vain.  Her  heart  was  away  from  the 
present  reality ;  and  no  effort  of  her  own  could  bring  it 
back.  It  was  night  when  the  boat  arrived,  and  no  chance 
offered  for  writing  before  retiring  to  bed.  It  seemed, 
indeed,  as  if  the  mother,  suspicious  that  some  communica 
tion  would  be  made  in  this  way,  kept  so  about  Constance 
all  the  next  day,  that  she  had  no  chance  of  dropping 
Theodore  even  a  line  to  say  where  she  was,  and  that  she 
still  remembered  him  with  affection.  And  the  next  day 
passed  in  the  same  way;  not  an  hour,  not  a  moment 
could  she  get  for  privacy  or  uninterrupted  self-communion. 
At  last  she  determined  to  write  to  Laura  Wykoff,  to 
which,  of  course,  her  mother  could  make  no  objection. 
But  she  dared  rtot  mention  the  name  of  Theodore,  or 
allude  to  her  present  restrained  condition,  except  remotely, 
for  fear  that  her  mother  would  ask  to  see  the  letter.  This 
letter  was  given  to  a  servant  to  convey  to  the  post-office, 
in  the  presence  of  her  mother.  It  never  reached  its 
destination.  And  the  mother  knew  well  the  reason  why. 
In  it,  she  asked  an  immediate  answer.  Day  after  day 
passed,  and  no  answer  came.  She  wrote  again,  and  with 
the  same  success.  Finally,  she  gained  a  few  minutes  to 
pen  a  line  or  two  to  Theodore,  which  she  concealed,  sus 
pecting  that  there  was  something  wrong  about  the  trans 
mission  of  the  letters,  until  a  chance  offered  for  having  it 
certainly  placed  in  the  right  channel  of  conveyance. 
This  note  reached  Theodore,  and  removed  a  mountain 
from  his  feelings.  He  had  learned  of  her  hasty  journey 
to  Albany,  but  this  was  all  he  could  ascertain,  and  sus 
pecting  the  cause,  his  mind  was  in  a  state  of  racking  and 
painful  suspense. 

Day  after  day  passed,  until  a  month  had  expired,  and 
still  there  was  no  indication  of  a  movement  to  return 
home.  Once  or  twice  a  week  her  father  would  come  up 
from  New  York,  and  to  the  persuasions  of  the  relatives 
at  whose  house  they  were  visiting,  half-consented  that 
Constance  and  her  mother  should  stay  all  summer.  Final 
ly,  it  was  decided,  that  Albany  should  be  their  place  of 
residence  for  some  months. 


400  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

Things  assuming  this  decided  appearance,  Constance 
now  set  herself  resolutely  to  work  to  circumvent  her 
mother's  careful  surveillance.  It  was  the  first  time  in  her 
life  that  she  had  seriously  determined  to  act  towards  the 
parent  she  had  so  long  and  so  tenderly  loved,  with  dupli 
city.  All  at  once  she  became  more  cheerful,  and  seemed 
to  enter  with  a  joyful  spirit  into  every  plan  proposed  for 
spending  the  time  pleasantly.  With  a  sprightly  cousin,  a 
young  girl  of  her  own  age,  she  cultivated  a  close  inti 
macy,  and  finding  her  somewhat  romantic  and  indepen 
dent,  finally  confided  to  her  the  secret  that  was  wearing 
into  her  heart  from  concealment.  Readily  did  Ellen 
Raymond  enter  into  the  scheme  she  at  last  proposed, 
which  was  to  write  to  Theodore,  and  give  the  letter  into 
her  charge.  It  was  promptly  conveyed  to  the  post-office. 
Theodore  was  directed  to  address  Ellen,  and  in  the 
envelope  to  enclose  a  letter  for  Constance.  On  the  third 
day,  the  young  ladies  took  a  walk,  and  in  their  way  call 
ed  at  the  post-office.  A  letter  was  handed  out  to  Ellen, 
and  on  breaking  the  seal,  another  appeared  addressed  to 
Constance.  She  did  not  dare  to  open  it  in  the  street,  but 
retired  to  a  confectioner's,  and  while  Ellen  was  tasting 
an  ice-cream,  Constance  was  devouring,  with  eager  eyes, 
the  first  love-token  she  had  ever  received  from  Theodore 
Wilmer. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  correspondence  which 
was  regularly  kept  up  through  the  summer,  of  all  of 
which  both  father  and  mother  remained  profoundly 
ignorant.  They  were  delighted  to  see  their  daughter  so 
soon  recover  from  the  first  deep  depression  of  spirits  which 
was  occasioned  by  their  sudden  removal  from  New  York, 
but  little  suspected  the  cause.  Less  and  less  carefully  did 
the  mother  watch  her  daughter,  and  more  frequently  were 
the  two  young  friends  alone  in  their  chambers,  even  for 
hours  together.  Such  times  were  not  spent  idly  by  Con 
stance.  Thus  the  very  means — separation  —  resorted  to 
by  Mr.  Jackson  and  his  wife,  to  wean  the  mind  of  their 
daughter  from  the  "  low-born"  Wilmer,  only  proved,  from 
not  having  been  thoroughly  carried  out,  that  which  bound 
them  together  in  heart  for  ever.  Give  two  lovers,  pen, 
ink,  and  paper,  and  their  love  will  defy  time  and  distance. 
The  thousand  expressed  fond  regards,  and  weariness  of 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  401 

absence,  endear  each  to  each;  and  imagination,  from 
affection,  invests  each  with  new  and  undiscovered  perfec 
tions. 

Three  months  had  passed  away  since  the  hasty  journey 
from  New  York,  and  supposing  Constance  to  be  thorough 
ly  weaned  from  her  foolish  preference  for  a  poor  clerk, 
for  she  was  now  cheerful,  and  expressed  no  wish  to  re 
turn — the  parents  proposed  to  go  back  to  the  city.  Pre 
paration  was  accordingly  made,  and  in  a  few  days  Con 
stance  found  herself,  with  a  yearning  desire  to  get  home 
again,  gliding  swiftly  along  the  smooth  surface  of  the 
Hudson.  She  had  not  failed  to  inform  Theodore  of  her 
return,  and  as  the  boat  swept  up  to  the  wharf,  her  quick 
eye  caught  his  eager  face  bending  over  towards  her.  A 
glance  of  glad,  and  yet  painful  recognition  passed  between 
them,  and  in  the  next  moment  he  had  disappeared  in  the 
living  mass  of  human  beings. 

For  some  time  she  was  closely  watched;  but  she  care 
fully  lulled  suspicion,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  managing 
to  get  short  and  stolen  interviews  with  Wilmer.  Their 
first  meeting  was  at  a  young  friend's,  to  whom  she  had 
confided  her  secret:  this  was  not  Laura  Wykoff,  for 
her  mother  had  managed  to  fall  out  with  her  family, 
so  as  to  have  a  good  plea  for  denying  to  Constance  the 
privilege  of  visiting  her.  Regularly  did  the  lovers  meet, 
about  once  every  week,  at  this  friend's;  and,  encouraged 
by  her,  they  finally  took  the  hazardous  and  decisive  step 
of  getting  married  clandestinely. 

Three  days  after  this  event,  Wilmer  entered  the  store 
of  the  merchants  in  whose  service  he  had  been  for  years, 
for  the  purpose  of  resuming  his  regular  duties  which  had 
been  briefly  interrupted.  He  was  met  by  the  senior 
partner,  with  a  manner  that  chilled  him  to  the  heart. 

"  Is  Mr.  Wykoff  in  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  was  the  cold  reply. 

"  He  has  not  left  town  ?" 

"  Yes.  He  went  to  New  Orleans  yesterday,  and  will 
not  return  for  two  or  three  months." 

"  Did  he  leave  a  letter  for  me  ?" 

«  No." 

Then  came  an  embarrassing  silence  of  some  moments 
which  was  broken  by  Wilmer's  saying — 

49 


402  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

"  I  suppose  that  I  can  resume  my  duties,  as  usual  ?" 

"We  have  supplied  your  place,"  was  the  answer  to 
this. 

Quick  as  thought,  the  young  man  turned  away,-  and 
left  the  store,  his  mind  all  in  confusion.  In  marrying 
Constance  in  opposition  to  her  parents'  wishes,  he  did  so 
•with  a  feeling  of  pride  in  the  internal  power,  and  external 
facilities,  which  he  possessed  for  rising  rapidly  in  the 
world,  and  showing  ere  long  to  old  Mr.  Jackson,  that  he 
could  stand  upon  an  equal  social  eminence  with  himself. 
How  suddenly  was  this  feeling  of  proud  confidence  dash 
ed  to  the  earth !  The  external  facilities  upon  which  he 
had  based  his  anticipations  were  to  be  found  in  the  friend 
ship  and  ample  means  of  the  house  of  Rensselaer,  Wykoff 
&  Co.  That  friendship  had  been  suddenly  withdrawn, 
evidently  in  strong  disapprobation  of  what  he  had  done. 

As  he  turned  away,  and  walked  slowly  along,  he  knew 
not  and  scarcely  cared  whither,  a  feeling  of  deep  des 
pondency  took  possession  of  his  mind.  From  a  proud 
consciousness  of  ability  to  rise  rapidly  in  the  world,  and 
show  to  the  friends  of  Constance  that  she  had  not  chosen 
one  really  beneath  her,  he  sunk  into  that  gloomy  and 
depressing  state  of  mind  in  which  we  experience  a  pain 
ful  inability  to  do  anything,  while  deeply  sensible  that 
unusual  efforts  are  required  at  our  hands.  The  thought 
of  not  being  able  to  lift  his  wife  above  the  obscure  con 
dition  in  which  he  must  now  inevitably  remain,  at  least 
for  a  long  time,  seemed  as  if  it  would  drive  him  mad. 
Passing  slowly  along,  wrapped  thus  in  gloomy  medita 
tions,  he  was  suddenly  aroused  by  a  hand  upon  his  arm, 
and  a  cheerful  voice,  saying — 

"  Give  us  your  hand,  Theodore !  Here  *s  a  hearty 
shake,  and  a  hearty  congratulation  at  the  same  time! 
Run  oft'  with  that  purse-proud  old  curmudgeon's  daugh 
ter!  Ha!  ha  !  I  like  you  for  that!  You're  a  man  of  met 
tle.  But,  halloo!  What's  the  matter?  You  look  as  grave 
as  a  barn-door,  on  the  shady  side.  Not  repenting,  already, 
I  hope  7" 

"  Yes,  Henry,  I  am  repenting  of  that  rash  act  from  the 
very  bottom  of  my  heart." 

"  0,  no  !  Don't  talk  in  that  way,  Theodore.     Constance 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  403 

is  one  of  the  sweetest  girls  in  the  city,  and  will  make  you 
a  lovely  wife.     There  are  hundreds  who  envy  you." 

"  They  need  not ;  for  this  is  the  most  wretched  hour 
of  my  life." 

"  Why,  what  in  the  world  is  the  matter,  Wilmer "?"  his 
friend  replied  to  this.  "  You  look  as  if  you  had  buried 
instead  of  married  a  wife.  But  come,  you  want  a  glass 
of  something  to  revive  you.  Let  us  step  in  here.  I  am 
a  little  dry  myself." 

Without  hesitation  or  reply,  Wilmer  entered  a  drinking- 
house,  with  the  young  man,  where  they  retired  to  a  box, 
and  ordered  brandy  and  water.  After  this  had  been 
taken  in  silence,  the  friend,  whose  name  was  Wilbert 
Arnold,  said — 

"  The  state  of  mind  in  which  I  find  you,  Theodore, 
surprises  and  pains  me  greatly.  If  it  is  not  trespassing 
too  far  upon  private  matters,  I  should  like  very  much  to 
know  the  reason.  I  ask,  because  I  feel  now,  and  always 
have  felt,  much  interest  in  you." 

It  was  some  time  before  Wilmer  replied  to  this.  At 
length,  he  said — 

"  The  cause  of  my  present  state  of  mind  is  of  such 
recent  occurrence,  and  I  have  become  so  bewildered  in 
consequence  of  it,  that  I  can  scarcely  rally  my  thoughts 
sufficiently  to  reply  to  your  kind  inquiries.  Suffice  it  to 
say,  that,  in  consequence,  I  presume,  of  my  having  run 
off  with  Mr.  Jackson's  daughter,  I  have  lost  a  good  situa 
tion,  and  the  best  of  friends.  I  am,  therefore,  thrown 
upon  the  world  at  this  very  crisis,  like  a  sailor  cast 
upon  the  ocean,  with  but  a  plank  to  sustain  himself,  and 
keep  his  head  above  the  waves.  When  I  married  Miss 
Jackson,  it  was  with  the  resolution  to  rise  rapidly,  and 
show  to  the  world  that  she  had  not  chosen  thoughtlessly. 
Of  course,  I  expected  the  aid  of  Rensselaer,  Wykoff  &" 
Co.  Their  uniform  kindness  towards  me  seemed  a  sure 
guarantee  for  this  aid.  But  the  result  has  been,  not  only 
their  estrangement  from  me,  but  my  dismissal  from  their 
service.  And  now,  what  to  do,  or  where  to  turn  my 
self,  I  do  not  know.  Really  I  feel  desperate !" 

"  That  is  bad,  truly,"  Arnold  rejoined,  musingly,  after 
Wilmer  had  ceased  speaking.  Then  ringing  a  little  hard- 
bell  that  stood  upon  the  table,  he  ordered  the  waiter,  vf'u 


404  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

obeyed  the  summons,  to  bring  some  more  brandy.  No 
thing  further  was  said  until  the  brandy  was  served,  of 
which  both  of  the  young  men  partook  freely. 

"  What  do  you  intend  doing  ?"  Arnold  at  length  asked, 
looking  his  friend  in  the  face. 

"  I  wish  you  would  answer  that  question  for  me,  for 
it 's  more  than  I  can  do,"  was  the  gloomy  response. 

"  You  must  endeavour  to  rise  in  the  world.  It  will 
never  do  to  bring  Constance  down  to  the  comparatively 
mean  condition  in  which  a  clerk  with  a  small  salary  is 
compelled  to  live." 

"  That  I  know,  too  well.  But  how  am  I  to  prevent  it? 
That  is  what  drives  me  almost  beside  myself." 

"  You  must  hit  upon  some  expedient  for  making  money 
fast." 

"  I  know  of  no  honest  expedients." 

•'  I  think  that  I  do." 

"Name  one." 

"  Do  you  know  Hardville  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  He  came  as  near  failure  as  could  possibly  be,  last 
week." 

"He  did?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  how  did  he  get  through  ?" 

"  It  is  the  answer  to  that  question  which  I  wish  you  to 
consider.  He  was  saved  from  ruin  in  the  last  extremity, 
and  by  what  some  would  call  a  desperate  expedient. 
Your  case  is  a  desperate  one,  and,  if  you  would  save 
yourself,  you  must  resort  to  desperate  expedients,  like- 
wise." 

"  Name  the  expedient." 

"  Hardville  had  one  thousand  dollars  to  pay,  more  than 
he  could  possibly  raise.  He  tried  everywhere,  but  to  no 
purpose.  He  could  neither  borrow  nor  collect  that  sum. 
In  a  moment  of  desperation,  he  put  one  hundred  dollars 
into  his  pocket,  and  went  to  a  regular  establishment  near 
here,  and  staked  that  sum  at  play.  In  two  hours  he  came 
away  with  twelve  hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket,  instead 
of  one  hundred.  And  thus  he  was  saved  from  ruin." 

When  Arnold  ceased  speaking,  Wilmer  looked  him  in 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  405 

the  face  with  a  steady,  stern,  half-angry  look,  but  made 
no  reply. 

"  Try  another  glass  of  this  brandy,"  the  former  said, 
pouring  out  a  pretty  liberal  supply  for  each.  Mechani 
cally,  Wilmer  put  the  glass  to  his  lips,  and  turned  off  the 
contents. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that  plan  ?"  asked  the 
friend,  after  each  had  sat  musing  for  some  time. 

"  I  am  not  a  gambler !"  was  the  reply. 

"  Of  course  not.  But  your  case,  as  I  said,  and  as  you 
admit,  is  a  desperate  one ;  and  requires  desperate  reme 
dies.  The  fact  of  your  going  to  a  regular  establishment, 
and  gaining  there,  in  an  honourable  way,  something,  as 
a  capital  to  begin  with,  does  not  make  you  a  gambler. 
After  you  have  got  a  start,  you  needn't  go  there  any 
more.  And  all  you  want  is  a  start.  Give  you  that,  and, 
my  word  for  it,  you  will  make  your  way  in  the  world 
with  the  best  of  them." 

"  O,  yes !  Give  me  a  start,  as  you  say,  and  I  '11  go 
ahead  as  fast  as  anybody.  Give  me  that  start,  and  I  '11 
show  old  Mr.  Jackson  in  a  few  years  that  I  can  count 
dollars  with  him  all  day." 

"  Exactly.  And  that  start  you  must  have.  Now,  how 
are  you  going  to  get  it,  unless  in  the  way  that  I  suggest  ?" 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  that  I  can  get  it  in  that  way." 

"  I  am,  then.  Only  make  the  trial.  You  owe  it  to 
your  wife  to  do  so.  For  her  sake,  then,  let  me  urge  you 
to  act  promptly  and  efficiently." 

Thus  tempted,  while  his  mind  was  greatly  obscured  by 
the  strong  potations  he  had  taken,  Theodore  Wilmer 
began  to  waver.  It  did  not  seem  half  so  wrong,  nor  half 
so  disgraceful,  to  play  for  money,  as  it  did  at  first.  Final 
ly,  he  agreed  to  meet  his  friend  that  evening,  and  get 
introduced  to  some  one  of  the  many  gambling  establish 
ments  that  infest  all  large  cities. 

A  reaction  in  his  feelings  now  took  place.  The  elation 
of  mind  caused  by  the  brandy,  made  him  confident  of 
success.  He  saw  before  him  a  rapid  elevation  to  wealth 
and  standing  in  society,  and,  consequently,  a  rapid  resto 
ration  of  Constance  to  the  circle  in  which  she  had  moved. 
Before  marriage,  he  had  rented  a  handsome  house,  and 
had  it  furnished  in  very  good  style,  upon  means  which  he 


406  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

had  prudently  saved  from  a  liberal  salary.  Into  this,  he 
at  once  introduced  his  young  wife,  who  had  already  begun 
to  feelher  heart  yearning  for  her  mother's  voice,  and  her 
mother's  smile.  One  young  friend  had  been  with  her  all 
the  morning,  but  had  left  towards  the  middle  of  the  day 
Alone,  for  the  first  time,  since  her  hurried  marriage,  her 
feelings  became  somewhat  saddened  in  their  hue.  But 
as  the  hour  approached  for  her  husband  to  come  home, 
those  feelings  gave  place,  in  a  degree,  to  an  ardent  desire 
for  his  return,  the  result  of  deep  and  fervent  love  for  him. 
She  had  sat  for  some  moments,  expecting  to  hear  him  at 
the  door,  when  the  bell  rung,  and  she  started  to  her  feet, 
and  stood  on  the  floor,  ready  to  spring  forward  the  mo 
ment  he  should  enter  the  room.  No  one,  however,  came 
in,  and  her  heart  sunk  in  her  bosom  with  the  disappoint 
ment.  In  a  moment  after,  the  servant  handed  her  a  note, 
the  seal  of  which  she  broke  hastily.  It  was  from  her 
husband,  and  ran  thus : — 

"DEAR  CONSTANCE:  —  An  accumulation  of  business  in 
my  absence  so  presses  upon  me  now,  that  I  cannot  possi 
bly  come  so  great  a  distance  to  dinner,  at  least  for  this 
day.  It  may  likewise  keep  me  away  until  eight  or  nine 
o'clock  this  evening.  But  keep  a  good  heart,  dear;  our 
meeting  will  be  pleasanter  for  the  long  absence — Adieu, 

THEODORE." 

The  note  dropped  from  her  hand,  and  she  sank  into  a 
chair,  overcome  with  a  feeling  of  strong  disappointment. 
To  wait  until  eight  or  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  before 
she  should  see  him,  when  the  morning  had  appeared 
lengthened  to  a  day  !  O,  it  seemed  as  if  she  could  not 
endure  the  wearisome  interval ! 

As  for  Wilmer,  the  truth  was,  he  found  himself  so  much 
under  the  influence  of  the  liberal  quantity  of  brandy  which 
he  had  taken,  that  he  dared  not  go  home  to  Constance. 
He  would  not  have  appeared  before  her  as  he  was,  for 
the  world.  It  was  under  the  consciousness  of  his  condi 
tion,  that  he  wrote  the  billet,  which  his  young  wife  had 
received.  After  doing  so,  he  went  to  bed  at  a  public 
house,  and  slept  until  towards  evening.  When  he  awoke, 
Arnold  was  sitting  in  the  chamber.  Some  feelings  of 
bitter  regret  for  the  pains  which  his  absence  must  have 
caused  his  young  wife,  passed  through  his  mind,  as  he 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  407 

aroused  himself.  These  were  soon  drowned  by  a  few 
glasses  of  wine,  which  his  friend  had  already  ordered  to 
be  sent  up.  That  friend,  let  it  here  be  remarked,  was  not 
a  professed  gambler  —  nor  had  he  any  sinister  designs  in 
urging  on  Wilmer  as  he  was  doing.  But  he  was  a  man 
of  loose  morals,  and,  therefore,  really  believed  that  he 
was  doing  him  a  service  in  urging  him  to  make  an  effort 
to  get  upon  his  feet  by  means  of  the  gambling-table. 
Knowing  the  young  man's  high-toned  feelings — and  how 
utterly  he  must,  from  his  character,  condemn  anything 
like  play,  he  had  purposely  sought  to  obscure  his  percep 
tions  by  inducing  him  to  drink  freely.  In  this,  he  had 
succeeded. 

As  soon  as  night  had  thrown  her  dark  shadows  over 
the  city,  the  two  young  men  took  their  steps  towards  one 
of  those  haunts,  known,  too  appropriately,  by  the  name 
of  "  hells."  At  eight  o'clock,  Theodore  went  in,  with 
two  hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket — all  the  money  he  pos 
sessed  ; — and  at  ten  o'clock,  came  out  penniless. 

Lonely  and  long  was  the  afternoon  to  the  young  bride, 
giving  opportunity  to  many  thoughts  of  a  sober,  and  even 
saddening  nature.  Evening  came  at  last,  and  then  night 
with  its  deeper  gloom.  Eight  o'clock  arrived,  and  nine, 
but  her  husband  did  not  return.  And  then  the  minutes 
slowly  passed,  until  the  clock  struck  ten. 

"  O,  where  can  he  be !"  Constance  ejaculated,  rising  to 
her  feet,  and  beginning  to  pace  the  room  to  and  fro,  paus 
ing  every  moment  to  listen  to  the  sound  of  passing  foot 
steps.  Thus  she  continued  for  the  space  of  something 
like  half  an  hour,  when  she  sunk  exhausted  upon  a  chair. 
It  was  twelve  o'clock  when  he  at  length  came  in.  As  he 
opened  the  door,  his  young  wife  sprung  to  his  side,  ex 
claiming — 

"  O,  Theodore  !  Theodore  !  Why  have  you  staid  away 
so  very  long?" 

As  she  said  this,  he  staggered  against  her,  almost  throw 
ing  her  over,  and  then  passed  on  to  the  parlors  without 
a  word  in  return  to  her  earnest  and  affectionate  greet 
ing- 
Poor  Constance  was  stunned  for  the  moment.  But  she 
quickly  recovered,  her  woman's  heart  nerving  itself  in 
voluntarily,  and  followed  after  her  husband.  He  had 


408  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

thrown  himself  upon  a  sofa,  and  sat,  half-reclining,  with 
his  head  upon  his  bosom. 

"  Are  you  sick,  dear  Theodore  ?"  his  young  wife  asked, 
in  a  tone  of  deep  and  earnest  affection,  laying  her  hand 
upon  him,  and  bending  down  and  kissing  his  forehead. 

"  Yes,  I  am  sick,  Constance,"  was  the  half-stupid 
reply — 

"Come,  then,  let  me  assist  you  up  to  bed.  A  good 
night's  rest  will  do  you  good,"  she  said,  gently  urging  him 
to  rise. 

She  understood  perfectly  his  condition.  She  knew  that 
it  was  intoxication.  But  while  it  pained  her  young  heart 
deeply,  it  awoke  in  her  bosom  no  feelings  of  alarm.  She 
felt  convinced  that  it  was  the  result  of  accident,  and  had 
no  expectation  of  ever  again  seeing  its  recurrence.  She 
asked  him  if  he  were  sick,  to  spare  him  the  mortification 
of  knowing  that  she  perceived  the  true  nature  of  his  in 
disposition. 

Thus  urged,  he  at  once  arose,  and  supported  by  the 
weak  arm  of  his  young  wife,  slowly  ascended  the  stairs, 
and  entered  his  chamber.  It  was  not  many  minutes  before 
his  senses  Were  locked  in  profound  slumber. 

Not  so,  however,  Constance.  The  earnestness  with 
which  she  had  looked  for  evening  to  come,  that  she  might 
again  see  the  face,  and  hear  the  voice  of  her  husband, 
had  greatly  excited  her  mind.  This  excitement  was 
increased  by  the  condition  in  which  he  had  so  unexpectedly 
returned.  The  effect  was,  to  keep  her  awake,  in  spite  of 
strong  efforts  to  sink  away  into  sleep.  Many  sad  and 
desponding  thoughts  forced  themselves  upon  her,  as  she 
lay,  hour  after  hour,  in  a  state  of  half-waking  conscious 
ness.  It  was  nearly  day-dawn,  when,  from  all  this,  she 
found  relief  in  a  deep  slumber. 

The  next  day  was  one  of  heart-aching  reflections  to 
Theodore  Wilmer.  In  his  eager,  but  half-insane  effort  to 
elevate  himself  rapidly  for  the  sake  of  his  young  wife,  he 
had  sunk  into  actual  want,  and  not  only  forfeited  his  own 
self-respect,  but  degraded  himself,  he  felt,  in  the  eyes  of 
her  whose  love  was  dearer  to  him  than  life. 

The  events  of  two  years  must  now  be  passed  over, 
with  but  a  brief  notice.  There  will  be  enough  in  the 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  4Q9 

after  history  of  Wilmer  and  his  young  wife,  to  awaken 
the  reader's  keenest  sympathies,  without  unveiling  the 
particular  incidents  of  this  period. 

Suffice  it,  then,  to  say, — that  the  first  night's  experience 
at  the  gambling-table  was  not  enough  to  satisfy  Wilmer, 
that  it  was  neither  the  right  way,  nor  the  most  successful 
way  of  elevating  himself  in  the  world.  So  anxious  did 
he  feel  on  account  of  Constance,  that  be  borrowed  money 
of  his  false  friend  Arnold,  on  the  evening  of  the  very 
next  day,  and  after  drinking,  freely,  to  nerve  himself  up, 
sought  again  the  gambling-table.  At  ten  o'clock,  he  left, 
the  winner  by  fifty  dollars.  He  left  thus  early  on  account 
of  his  wife,  who  would  be,  he  knew,  anxiously  looking 
for  his  return.  This  encouraged  him  to  go  on,  and  he  did 
go  on.  But  he  could  never  feel  sanguine  of  success,  or 
be  able  to  still  the  troubled  whispers  within,  until  he  had 
drunken  freely.  Of  course,  he  was  every  day  more  or 
less  under  the  influence  of  liquor.  For  a  year,  he 
managed,  in  this  way,  to  keep  up  the  style  of  living  in 
which  he  had  commenced,  but  he  could  get  nothing  ahead. 
None  could  imagine  how  this  was  done,  for  the  young 
man  was  exceedingly  cautious.  He  looked  to  some  good 
turn  of  fortune  by  which  he  should  be  enabled  to  abandon 
for  ever  a  course  of  life  that  he  hated  and  despised.  No 
such  lucky  turn,  however,  met  his  anxious  expectations. 
After  the  first  year  of  this  course  of  life,  his  health,  which 
had  never  been  very  good,  began  rapidly  to  fail.  His 
cheeks  became  hollow,  and  a  racking  cough  began  to 
show  itself.  Still  he  went  on  keeping  late  hours,  and 
drinking  more  and  more  freely,  while  his  mind  was  all 
the  time  upon  the  rack.  Towards  the  close  of  the  second 
year,  he  was  taken  down  with  a  severe  illness,  the  result 
of  all  this  abuse  of  mind  and  body.  He  lingered  long 
upon  the  brink  of  the  grave ;  but  the  little  energy  which 
his  system  retained,  rallied  at  last,  and  he  began  slowly 
to  recover.  During  convalescence,  he  had  full  time  for 
reflection.  For  full  two  years,  he  had  been  almost  con 
stantly  so  much  under  the  influence  of  brandy,  as  really 
to  be  unable  to  think  rationally  upon  any  subject,  and  he 
had,  in  consequence,  pursued  a  course  of  life,  injurious, 
both  to  his  own  moral  and  physical  health,  and  to  the 
happiness  of  her  for  whom  he  would,  at  any  moment  of 

50 


410  THE     FIERJf     TRIAL. 

that  time,  have  sacrificed  everything,  even  life  itself.  In 
rising  from  that  bed  of  sickness,  it  was  with  a  solemn 
vow  never  again  to  enter  a  gaming-house,  and  never 
again  to  touch  the  bewildering  poison  that  had  been  the 
secondary,  if  not,  indeed,  the  primary  cause  of  two  years' 
folly — nay,  madness. 

And  Constance,  what  of  her  all  that  time?  the  reader 
asks.  It  would  be  a  difficult  task  to  give  even  a  feeble 
idea  of  all  she  patiently  endured,  and  of  all  she  suffered. 
Not  once  in  that  long  period  did  she  either  see  or  hear 
from  her  parents.  Three  or  four  times  had  she  written 
to  them,  but  no  answer  was  returned.  At  last  she  ven 
tured,  under  the  yearning  anxiety  that  she  felt  once  more 
to  see  her  mother,  and  to  hear  the  voice  that  lingered  in 
her  memory  like  old  familiar  music,  to  go  to  her,  and  ask 
her  forgiveness  and  her  love.  But  she  was  coldly  and 
cruelly  repulsed  —  not  even  being  permitted  to  gain  her 
mother's  presence. 

In  regard  to  her  husband,  her  love  was  like  a  deep, 
pure  stream.  Its  course  was  never  troubled  by  passion, 
or  obstructed  in  its  onward  course.  Though  he  would 
come  home  often  and  often  in  a  state  of  stupor  from 
drink  —  though  it  was  rarely  earlier  than  midnight  when 
he  returned  to  make  glad  with  his  presence  her  watching 
and  waiting  heart,  she  never  felt  a  reproaching  thought. 
And  to  her,  his  words,  and  tones,  and  manner,  were  ever 
full  of  tenderness.  Deeply  did  he  love  her — and  for  her 
sake  more  than  for  his  own,  was  he  struggling  thus 
against  a  powerful  current,  daily  exhausting  his  strength, 
without  moving  onward. 

Thus  much,  briefly,  of  those  two  years  of  toil,  and 
struggle,  and  pain.  On  recovering,  with  a  shattered  con 
stitution,  from  the  serious  attack  of  illness  that  had  re 
sulted  from  the  abuse  of  himself  during  that  period,  Wil- 
mer  felt  compelled  to  give  up  his  fondly-cherished  ideas 
of  rising  with  Constance  to  the  position  from  which  he 
had  dragged  her  down,  and  to  be  content  with  a  humbler 
lot.  He,  therefore,  sought,  and  obtained  a  situation  as 
clerk,  at  a  salary  of  eight  hundred  dollars  per  annum. 
Already  he  had  been  compelled  to  move  into  a  smaller 
house  than  the  one  at  first  taken,  and  in  this  he  was  now 
able  to  remain. 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  4H 

But  seeing,  with  a  clearer  vision  than  before,  Wil- 
mer  perceived  that  much  of  the  bloom  had  faded  from 
his  wife's  young  cheek,  and  that  her  heart  had  not  ceased 
to  yearn  for  the  home  and  loved  ones  of  her  earlier 
years. 

Another  year  passed  away,  and  during  the  whole  of 
that  time  not  one  word  of  kindness  or  censure  reached 
the  ears  of  Constance  from  her  parents.  They  seemed 
to  have  not  only  cast  her  off,  but  to  have  forgotten  the 
fact  of  her  existence.  To  a  mind  like  that  of  Theodore 
Wilmer's,  any  condition  in  which  a  beloved  one  was 
made  to  suffer  keenly,  and  as  he  believed,  alone, through 
him,  could  not  be  endured  without  serious  inroads  upon  a 
shattered  constitution;  and  much  to  his  alarm,  by  the  end 
of  this  year  he  found  that  he  was  less  able  than  usual  to 
attend  through  the  whole  day  to  the  fatiguing  duties  of 
the  counting-room.  Frequently  he  would  return  home  at 
night  with  a  pain  in  his  breast,  that  often  continued  ac 
companied  by  a  troublesome  cough  through  a  greater  part 
of  the  night.  The  morning,  too,  often  found  him  feverish 
and  debilitated,  and  with  no  appetite. 

The  engrossing  love  of  a  mother  for  her  first-born,  re 
lieved,  during  this  year,  in  a  great  degree,  the  aching  void 
of  Constance  Wilmer's  breast.  The  face  of  her  sweet 
babe  often  reflected  a  smile  of  deep,  heart-felt  happiness, 
lighting  up,  ere  it  faded  away  into  the  sober  cast  of 
thought,  a  feeble  ray  upon  the  face  of  her  husband.  The 
steady  lapse  of  days,  and  weeks,  and  months,  brought  a 
steady  development  of  the  mind  and  body  of  their  little 
one.  He  was  the  miniature  image  of  his  father,  with 
eyes,  in  which  Wilmer  could  see  all  the  deep  love  which 
lay  in  the  dark  depths  of  those  that  had  won  his  first 
affections.  Happy  would  they  have  been  but  (who  would 
not  be  happy  were  it  not  for  that  little  word  ?)  for  one 
yearning  desire  in  the  heart  of  Constance  for  the  lost  love 
of  her  mother  —  but  for  the  trembling  fear  of  want  that 
stared  Theodore  daily  in  the  face.  His  salary  as  clerk 
was  small,  and  to  live  in  New  York  cost  them  no  trifle. 
At  last,  owing  to  the  failure  of  the  house  by  which  he 
was  employed,  the  dreaded  event  came.  He  was  out  of 
a  situation,  and  found  it  impossible  to  obtain  one.  The 
failure  had  been  a  very  bad  one,  and  there  was  a  strong 


412  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

suspicion  of  unfair  dealing.  The  prejudice  against  the 
house,  extended  even  to  the  clerks,  and  several  of  them, 
finding  it  very  difficult  to  get  other  places  that  suited 
them,  left  New  York  for  other  cities.  One  of  them,  a 
friend  to  Wilmer,  came  to  Baltimore,  and  got  into  a  large 
house ;  a  vacancy  soon  occurring,  he  recommended  Wil- 
rner,  who  was  sent  for.  He  came  at  once,  for  neither  to 
him  nor  his  wife  was  there  anything  attractive  in  New 
York.  His  salary  was  to  be  five  hundred  dollars. 

In  removing  to  Baltimore,  he  took  with  him  the  greater 
part  of  the  furniture  that  he  had  at  first  purchased,  some 
of  which  was  of  a  superior  quality.  There  he  rented  a 
small  house,  and  endeavoured  by  the  closest  economy  to 
make  his  meagre  salary  sufficient  to  meet  every  want. 
But  this  seemed  impossible. 

Gradually,  every  year  he  found  himself  getting  behind 
hand,  from  fifty  to  sixty  dollars.  The  birth  of  a  second 
child  added  to  his  expenses ;  and  the  failing  health  of  his 
wife,  increased  them  still  more.  Finally,  he  got  in  arrears 
•with  the  agent  of  Mr.  Moneylove,  his  landlord.  At  this 
time,  an  apparently  rapid  decline  had  become  developed 
in  the  system  of  his  wife,  and  on  the  night  on  which  he 
had  appealed  to  this  person's  feelings  of  humanity,  as  men 
tioned  in  the  opening  of  the  story,  he  found  her,  on  his 
return,  extremely  ill.  A  high  fever  had  set  in,  and  she 
was  suffering  much  from  difficult  respiration.  The  phy 
sician  must,  of  course,  be  called  in,  even  though  but  the 
day  before  he  had  put  off  his  collector  for  the  tenth  time. 
Sad,  from  many  causes,  he  turned  again  from  the  door  of 
his  dwelling,  and  sought  the  physician. 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  waited  with  a  throbbing  heart, 
for  the  appearance  of  the  man  he  earnestly  desired,  and 
yet  dreaded  to  see.  When  he  heard  his  step  upon  the 
stairs,  his  cheek  began  to  burn,  and  he  even  trembled  as 
a  criminal  might  be  supposed  to  tremble  in  the  presence 
of  his  judge.  For  a  moment  he  thought  only  of  his  un 
paid  bill,  in  the  next  of  his  suffering  wife.  The  physician 
entered.  Theodore  hesitated,  and  spoke  in  a  low,  timid 
voice,  as  he  requested  a  call  that  night  upon  his  wife. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Wilmer  very  ill  ?"  inquired  the  physician,  in 
a  kind  voice. 

"  I  fear  seriously  so,  sir." 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  413 

"  How  long  has  she  been  sick  1" 

"  It  has  been  several  weeks  since  she  complained  of  a 
pain  in  her  side ;  and  all  that  time  she  has  been  troubled 
with  a  hard  cough.  For  the  last  few  days  she  has  hard 
ly  been  able  to  move  about,  and  to-night  she  is  in  a  high 
fever,  and  finds  great  difficulty  in  breathing." 

"  Then  she  must  be  attended  to,  at  once.  Why  did  you 
not  call  before,  Mr.  Wilmer  1  Such  delays,  you  know, 
are  very  dangerous." 

"I  do — I  do — but" Wilmer  hesitated,  and  looked 

troubled  and  confused. 

"But  what,  Mr.  Wilmer  ?"  urged  the  physician  in  the 
kindest  manner. 

"I  —  I  —  I  have  not  been  able  to  pay  your  last  bill, 
much  as  I  have  desired  it.  My  salary  is  small,  and  I  find 
it  very  difficult  to  get  along." 

"  Still,  my  dear  sir,  health  and  life  are  of  great  value. 
And  besides,  if  you  had  called  in  a  physician  at  the 
earliest  stage  of  Mrs.  Wilmer's  illness,  you  might  have 
saved  much  expense,  as  well  as  spared  her  much  suffer 
ing.  But  cheer  up,  sir ;  bright  sunshine  always  succeeds 
the  cloud  and  the  storm.  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  my  bill 
when  it  is  convenient,  and  not  before.  Don't  let  it  cause 
you  an  uneasy  moment." 

The  kind  manner  of  the  physician  soothed  his  feelings, 
and  the  prompt  visit,  and  prompt  relief  given,  softened 
the  stern  anguish  of  his  troubled  spirit.  The  bruised  reed 
is  never  broken.  When  the  stricken  heart  is  tried,  it  is 
never  beyond  the  point  of  endurance. 

In  no  instance  had  Wilmer  drawn  from  his  employers 
more  than  his  regular  salary,  no  matter  how  pressing 
were  his  necessities.  Beyond  the  contract  he  had  enter 
tained  no  desire  to  go,  but  strove,  in  everything,  to  keep 
down  his  expenses  to  his  slender  income.  Now,  however, 
in  view  of  the  threat  made  by  the  collector  of  rents,  after 
having  thought  and  thought  about  it  until  bewildered  with 
a  distressing  sense  of  his  almost  hopeless  condition,  he 
came  to  the  resolution  to  ask  an  advance  of  fifty  dollars, 
to  be  kept  back  from  his  regular  wages,  at  the  rate  of 
five  dollars  a  month.  For  some  hours  he  pondered  this 
plan  in  his  mind,  and  obtained  much  relief  from  the  im 
aginary  execution  of  it.  But  when  the  moment  came  to 


414  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

ask  the  favour,  his  heart  sank  within  him,  and  his  lips  were 
sealed.  In  alternate  struggles  like  this,  the  morning  of 
the  first  day  passed,  after  his  interview  with  Mr.  Money- 
love,  and  still  he  had  not  been  able  to  prefer  his  humble 
request.  When  he  went  home  to  dine,  in  consequence  of 
the  continued  perturbation  of  his  mind  for  hours,  he  was 
pale  and  nervous,  with  no  inclination  for  food.  To  add 
to  his  distress  of  mind,  his  oldest  child,  now  a  fine  boy  of 
four  summers,  had  been  taken  extremely  ill  since  morn 
ing,  and  the  anxiety  consequent  upon  it,  had  painfully 
excited  the  feeble  system  of  his  wife.  Another  visit  from 
the  physician  became  necessary,  and  was  promptly  made. 

Frequently,  in  consequence  of  pressing  calls  at  home, 
he  had  been  almost  forced  to  remain  longer  away  from 
his  place  of  business  at  dinner-time,  than  was  customary 
for  the  clerks.  On  this  day,  two  hours  had  glided  by 
when  his  hasty  foot  entered  the  store,  on  his  return  from 
dinner.  His  fears  of  a  distraint  for  rent  were  greatly 
heightened  in  consequence  of  the  increased  illness  of  his 
family,  and  as  the  only  way  to  prevent  it  that  had  occur 
red  to  his  mind,  was  to  obtain  from  his  employers  a  loan 
of  fifty  dollars  as  just  mentioned,  he  had  fully  made  up 
his  mind  to  waive  all  feeling  and  at  once  name  his 
request.  Two  hours  we  have  said  had  expired  since  he 
\vent  home  to  dine.  On  his  entering  the  counting-room, 
the  senior  partner  of  the  house  drew  out  his  watch,  and 
remarked,  rather  angrily,  that  he  could  not  permit  such 
neglect  of  duty  in  a  clerk,  and  that  unless  he  kept  better 
hours,  he  must  look  for  another  place. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  confusion  of  his  mind,  con 
sequent  upon  this  censure  and  threat,  subsided  sufficiently 
to  allow  him  to  feel  keenly  the  utter  prostration  of  the 
last  expectation  for  help,  that  had  arisen  like  an  angel  of 
hope,  in  what  seemed  the  darkest  hour  of  his  fate.  And 
bitter  indeed,  were  then  his  thoughts.  Those  who  have 
never  felt  it,  cannot  imagine  the  awful  distress  which  the 
mind  feels,  while  contemplating  the  wants  of  those  who 
are  dearer  than  all  the  world,  without  possessing  the 
means  of  relieving  them.  At  times,  there  is  a  wild  ex 
citement,  an  imaginary  consciousness  of  power  to  do  all 
things ;  too  quickly,  alas !  succeeded  by  the  chilling  cer 
tainty  tnat  honestly  and  honourably  it  can  do  nothing. 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  415 

Slowly  and  painfully  passed  the  hours  until  nightfall, 
and  then  Wilmer  again  sought  with  hasty  steps  the  nest 
that  sheltered  his  beloved  ones.  Alas !  the  spoiler  had 
been  there.  True  to  his  threat,  the  agent  of  Mr.  Money- 
love  had  taken  quick  means  to  get  his  own.  All  of  his 
furniture  had  been  seized,  and  not  only  seized,  but  nearly 
everything,  except  a  bed  and  a  few  chairs,  removed  in  his 
absence. 

"O,  Constance,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  was  his 
agonized  question,  to  his  weeping  wife,  who  met  him  ill 
as  she  was  at  the  door,  and  hid  her  face  in  his  bosom, 
like  a  dove  seeking  protection. 

"  I  cannot  tell,  Theodore.  Everything  has  been  carried 
off  under  distraint  for  rent,  so  they  said,  who  came  here. 
But  you  do  not  owe  any  rent,  do  you?  I  am  sure  you 
never  mentioned  it." 

"  It  is  too  true — too  true,"  was  his  only  answer.  Care 
fully  had  Wilmer  concealed  from  his  wife  all  his  troubles. 
He  could  not  think  of  adding  one  pang  more  to  the  heart 
that  had  already  suffered  so  much  on  his  account.  Wise 
ly  he  did  not  act  in  this,  but  few  can  blame  the  weakness 
that  shrunk  from  giving  pain  to  a  beloved  object.  There 
are  few  who  have  not,  sometime  in  life,  found  themselves 
in  situations  of  trial  and  distress,  in  which  nothing  was 
left  them  but  submission.  In  that  very  condition  did  this 
lonely  family,  strangers  in  a  strange  place,  find  themselves 
on  this  night  of  strong  trial.  They  experienced  a  ray  of 
comfort,  and  that  was  the  apparent  healthy  re-action  in 
the  system  of  their  sick  child.  With  this  to  cheer  them, 
they  gathered  their  two  little  ones  with  them  in  their  only 
bed,  and  slept  soundly  through  the  night. 

Their  servant  had'  left  them  the  day  before,  and  they 
were  spared  the  mortification  of  having  such  a  witness 
of  their  humiliation.  Mrs.  Wilmer  found  it  somewhat 
difficult  to  prepare  their  food  on  the  next  morning,  as  even 
her  kitchen  furniture  had  nearly  all  shared  the  fate  of  the 
rest,  and  she  found  herself  very  feeble.  Something  like 
three  hundred  dollars  worth  had  been  taken  for  a  debt  of 
forty  or  fifty.  The  slender  breakfast  over,  with  the  repri 
mand  of  the  .day  before  painfully  fresh  in  his  mind,  Wil 
mer  hastened  away  to  the  counting-room.  He  had  only 
been  a  few  moments  at  the  desk,  when  the  partner  who 


416  THE     FIERY     TRIAL 

had  spoken  to  him  the  day  before,  came  up  with  the 
morning's  paper  in  his  hand,  and  pointing  to  an  advertise 
ment  of  a  sale  of  furniture  seized  for  rent  due  by  Theo 
dore  Wilmer,  asked  him  if  he  was  the  person  named. 
Wilmer  looked  at  him  for  some  moments,  vainly  attempt 
ing  to  reply,  his  face  exhibiting  the  most  painful  emotions 
— finally,  he  laid  his  head  upon  the  desk  without  a  word, 
and  gave  way  to  tears.  It  was  a  weakness,  but  he  was 
not  then  superior  to  it. 

"  How  much  do  you  owe  for  rent?" 

"  Forty  dollars." 

"  Forty  dollars !  And  is  it  for  this  sum  alone  that  your 
furniture  has  been  taken  ?" 

"  That  is  all  I  owe  for  rent." 

"  Then  why  did  you  not  let  us  know  your  condition  ? 
You  should  have  had  more  consideration  for  your  family." 

"Yesterday,  sir,"  Wilmer  replied,  somewhat  bitterly, 
"  I  came  here  from  dinner,  after  having  been  unavoidably 
detained  with  a  sick  child,  resolved  to  conquer  my  reluc 
tance,  and  ask  for  the  loan  of  fifty  dollars,  to  be  deducted 
from  my  salary,  at  the  rate  of  five  dollars  a  month.  But 
your  reproof  for  remissness  deterred  me.  And  when  I 
returned  home,  the  work  had  been  done.  They  have  left 
us  but  a  bed,  a  few  chairs,  and  a  common  table.  Oh,  sir, 
it  seems  as  if  it  would  kill  me !" 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  when  I  complained,  you  owed  it  to 
yourself,  and  you  owed  it  to  me,  to  explain.  How  could 
I  know  your  peculiar  situation  ?" 

"Have  you  ever  felt,  sir,  that  no  one  cared  for  you? 
As  if  even  Heaven  had  forgotten  you  ?  If  not,  then  you 
cannot  understand  my  feelings.  It  may  be  wrong,  but 
always  meaning  to  act  justly  towards  every  one,  I  feel  so 
humbled  by  accusation,  that  I  have  no  heart  to  explain. 
It  seems  to  me  that  others  should  know  that  I  would  not 
wrong  them." 

"  It  certainly  is  wrong,  Mr.  Wilmer.  Suppose  you  had 
simply  mentioned  yesterday  the  illness  of  your  child ;  I 
should  at  once  have  withdrawn  my  censure,  and  probably 
have  made  some  kind  inquiry ;  you  would  then  have  been 
more  free  to  prefer  your  request,  which  would  have  been 
at  once  granted.  See  what  it  would  have  saved  your 
family."  Q 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  417 

"  I  see  it  all.     Feeling  always  obscures  the  judgment." 

"  To  one  in  your  particular  situation,  a  right  knowledge 

of  the  truth  you  have  just  uttered  is  all-important.     No 

matter  what  may  be  your  condition,  never  suffer  feeling 

to  become  so  acute  as  to  dim  your  sober  thoughts,  and 

Earalyze  your  right  actions.  But  here  are  a  hundred  dol- 
irs.  Redeem  your  things,  and  get  on  your  feet  again. 
Take  them  as  an  advance  on  your  salary  for  the  last  year; 
and  draw  six  hundred  instead  of  five,  in  future." 

A  grateful  look  told  the  joy  of  his  heart,  as  he  hastened 
away.  In  one  hour  the  furniture  which  the  day  before 
had  been  forcibly  taken  away,  was  at  his  own  door. 

Relief  from  present  embarrassment,  and  a  fair  prospect 
of  a  full  support  for  the  future,  gave  Wilmer  a  lighter 
heart  than  he  had  carried  in  his  bosom  for  many  months. 
The  reaction  made  him  for  a  time  happy.  But,  while 
our  hearts  are  evil,  we  cannot  be  happy,  except  for  brief 
periods.  The  disease  will  indicate  by  pain  its  deep-root 
ed  presence. 

The  drooping  form  of  his  wife  soon  called  his  thoughts 
back  to  misery.  Health  had  wandered  away,  and  the 
smiling  truant  strayed  so  long,  that  hope  of  her  return 
had  almost  forsaken  them. 

Nearly  five  years  had  passed  since  Constance  turned 
away,  almost  broken-hearted,  from  the  door-stone  of  her 
father's  house;  and  during  all  that  long,  long  time,  she  had 
received  no  token  of  remembrance.  She  dared  not  suffer 
herself  to  think  even  for  a  moment  on  the  cruel  fact.  The 
sudden,  involuntary  remembrance  of  such  a  change  from 
the  fondest  affection  to  the  most  studied  disregard,  would 
almost  madden  her. 

As  for  Wilmer,  the  recollection  of  the  past  was  as  a 
thorn  in  his  pillow,  too  often  driving  sleep  from  a  wearied 
frame,  that  needed  its  health-restoring  influence.  And 
often,  deep  and  bifter  were  his  self-reproaches.  But  for 
his  fatal  and  half-insane  abandonment  of  himself  to  the 
vain  hope  of  gaining  a  foothold  by  which  he  might  rapidly 
elevate  his  condition  for  the  sake  of  Constance,  he  was 
now  conscious  that,  slowly,  but  surely,  he  would  have 
risen,  by  the  power  of  an  internal  energy  of  character. 
And  more  deeply  conscious  was  he,  that,  but  for  the  half- 
intoxicated  condition  in  which  he  was  when  he  consented 

51 


418  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

to  go  to  a  gaming-house,  he  never  would  have  abandoned 
himself  to  gaming  and  drinking  as  he  did  for  two  long 
years  of  excited  hopes,  and  dark,  gloomy  despondency. 
'Two  years,  that  broke  down  his  spirits,  and  exhausted 
the  energies  of  his  physical  system.  Two  years,  from 
whose  sad  effects,  neither  mind  nor  body  was  ever  again 
able  to  recover. 

But  now  let  us  turn  from  the  cast-off,  from  the  forsaken, 
to  the  parents  who  had  estranged  themselves  from  their 
child. 

A  foreign  arrival  had  brought  letters  from  Mr.  Jack 
son's  agent  in  Holland,  containing  information  of  a  great 
fall  in  tobacco.  Large  shipments  had  been  made  by 
several  houses,  and  especially  by  that  of  Mr.  Jackson,  in 
anticipation  of  high  prices  resulting  from  a  scarcity  of 
the  article  in  the  German  markets.  But  the  shipments 
had  been  too  large,  and  a  serious  decline  in  price  was  the 
consequence.  Any  interruption  of  trade,  by  which  the 
expectation  of  profits  entertained  for  months  is  dashed  to 
the  ground  in  a  moment,  has,  usually,  the  effect  to  make 
the  merchant  unhappy  for  a  brief  period.  It  takes  some 
time  for  the  energies  of  his  mind,  long  directed  in  one 
course,  to  gather  themselves  up  again,  and  bend  to  some 
new  scheme  of  profit.  The  "  tobacco  speculation"  of 
18 — ,  had  been  a  favourite  scheme  of  Mr.  Jackson's,  and 
he  had  entered  into  it  more  largely  than  any  other  Ameri 
can  house.  Its  failure  necessarily  involved  him  in  a  heavy 
loss. 

As  evening  came  quietly  down,  sobering  into  a  browner 
mood  the  feelings  of  Mr.  Jackson,  the  merchant  turned 
his  steps  slowly  towards  his  home.  Naturally,  the  smil 
ing  image  of  his  daughter  came  up  before  his  mind,  and 
he  quickened  his  pace  instinctively.  He  remembered 
how  nearly  he  had  lost  even  this  darling  treasure,  and 
chid  himself  for  being  troubled  at  the  loss  of  a  few  thou 
sand  dollars,  when  he  was  so  rich  in  the  love  of  a  lovely 
child.  He  rang  the  bell  with  a  firmer  hand,  and  stepped 
more  lightly  as  he  entered  the  hall,  in  anticipation  of  the 
sweet  smile  of  his  heart's  darling.  He  felt  a  little  disap 
pointed  at  not  finding  her  in  the  sitting-room,  but  did  not 
ask  for  her,  in  expectation  of  seeing  her  enter  each  mo 
ment.  So  much  was  he  engrossed  with  her  image  that 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  419 

he  almost  forgot  his  business  troubles.  Gradually  his 
mind,  from  the  over-excitement  of  the  day,  became  a 
little  fretted,  as  he  listened  in  vain  for  her  light  foot-fall 
at  the  door.  When  the  bell  rung  for  tea,  he  started,  and 
asked, — 

"  Where  is  Constance  ?" 

"  In  her  room,  I  suppose,"  replied  Mrs.  Jackson,  indif 
ferently. 

They  seated  themselves  at  the  tea-table,  and  waited  for 
a  few  moments;  but  Constance  did  not  come. 

"  John,  run  up  and  call  Constance ;  perhaps  she  did  not 
hear  the  bell." 

John  returned  in  a  moment  with  the  intelligence  that 
his  young  mistress  was  not  there. 

'  Then,  where  is  she  ?"  asked  both  the  parents  at  once. 

4  Don't  know,"  replied  John,  mechanically. 

1  Call  Sarah." 

Sarah  came. 

4  Where  is  Constance  ?" 

'  I  don't  know,  ma'am." 

4  Did  she  go  out  this  afternoon  ?" 

'  Yes,  ma'am.  She  went  out  about  two  hours  ago, 
ma'am." 

44  That 's  strange,"  said  her  mother.  "  She  always  tells 
me  where  she  is  going." 

Both  parents  left  the  tea-table,  each  with  a  heavy  pre 
sentiment  of  coming  trouble  about  the  heart.  They  went, 
as  by  one  consent,  to  Constance's  chamber.  The  mother 
proceeded  to  look  into  her  drawers,  and  found  to  her 
grief  and  astonishment  that  they  were  nearly  all  empty. 

For  some  time,  neither  spoke  a  word.  The  truth  had 
flashed  upon  the  mind  of  each  at  the  same  moment. 

"It  may  not  yet  be  too  late,"  were  the  first  words 
spoken,  and  by  the  mother. 

"  It  is  too  late,"  was  the  brief,  but  meaning  response. 

From  that  time  her  name  was  not  mentioned,  and  even 
her  portrait  was  taken  down  and  thrown  into  the  lumber- 
room.  Her  few  letters,  after  her  hasty  and  imprudent 
marriage,  were  burned  up  without  being  opened.  So 
much  for  wounded  family  pride !  But  think  not  that  her 
image  was  really  obliterated  from  their  minds.  No — no. 
It  was  there  an  ever  constant  and  living  presence. — 


420  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

Though  neither  of  the  parents  spoke  of,  or  alluded  to  her, 
yet  they  could  not  drive  away  her  spiritual  presence. 

Year  after  year  glided  away,  and  though  the  name  of 
Constance  had  never  passed  their  lips,  and  they  knew 
nothing  of  her  destiny;  yet  as  year  after  year  passed,  her 
image,  now  a  sad,  tearful  image,  grew  more  and  more 
distinct  before  their  eyes.  In  their  dreams  they  often  saw 
her  in  suffering  and  nigh  unto  death,  and  when  they  would 
stretch  forth  their  hands  to  save  her,  she  would  be  snatch 
ed  out  of  their  sight.  Still  they  mentioned  not  her  name; 
and  the  world  thought  the  cold-hearted,  unnatural  parents 
had  even  forgotten  their  child. 

But  what  had  they  now  to  live  for  ?  To  such  as  they, 
no  happiness  resulted  from  doing  good  to  others,  for  the 
love  of  self  had  extinguished  all  love  of  the  neighbour. 
The  passion  for  accumulating,  it  is  true,  still  remained 
with  the  merchant ;  but  trade  had  become  so  broken  up 
and  diverted  from  its  old  channels,  that  he  realized  small 
profits,  and  frequent  losses.  Finally,  he  retired  from  busi 
ness,  and  from  the  city. 

After  the  marriage  of  Constance,  Mrs.  Jackson  found 
herself  of  far  less  consideration  in  company.  Few  in 
high  life  are  altogether  heartless,  and  all  are  ready  to 
censure  any  exhibition  of  family  pride,  which  is  carried 
so  far  as  to  alienate  the  parent  from  the  child.  This  feel 
ing  the  mother  of  Constance  found  to  prevail  wherever 
she  went,  and  she  never  attributed  the  coolness  of  fash 
ionable  acquaintances,  nor  the  gradual  falling  away  of 
more  intimate  friends,  to  any  other  than  the  right  cause. 
How  could  she  ?  In  her  case  the  adage  was  true  to  the 
letter — "  A  guilty  conscience  needs  no  accusation." 

Nearly  ten  years  had  passed  away  since  the  parents 
oecame  worse  than  childless.  They  were  living  at  their 
country  residence  near  Harlaem,  enduring,  but  not  enjoy 
ing  life.  They  had  wealth,  and  every  comfort  and  luxury 
that  wealth  could  bring.  But  the  slave  who  toiled  in  the 
burning  sun,  and  prepared  his  own  coarse  food  at  night 
in  a  dirty  hovel,  was  happier  than  they.  Even  unto  this 
time  had  they  not  spoken  together  of  their  child,  since 
the  day  of  her  departure. 

One  night  in  August,  a  terrible  storm  swept  over  New 
York  and  its  neighbourhood.  Flash  after  flash  of  keen 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  421 

lightning  blazed  across  the  sky,  and  peal  after  peat  of 
awful  thunder  rent  the  air.  It  came  up  about  midnight, 
and  continued  for  more  than  an  hour.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Jackson  were  roused  from  slumber  by  this  terrible  war 
of  the  elements.  Its  noise  had  troubled  their  sleep  ere 
it  awoke  them,  and  their  dreams  were  of  their  child. 
During  its  awful  continuance,  while  they  felt  themselves 
more  intimately  in  the  hands  of  the  Ail-Powerful,  their 
many  sins  passed  rapidly  before  them,  but  the  stain  that 
darkened  the  whole  of  the  last  ten  years,  the  one  crime 
of  many  years,  which  made  their  hearts  sink  within  them 
with  a  strange  fear,  was  their  conduct  towards  their  child. 
But  neither  spoke  of  it.  Upon  this  subject,  for  several 
years,  they  had  been  afraid  of  each  other. 

The  storm  passed  away,  but  they  could  not  sleep. 
Wearied  nature  sought,  but  could  find  no  repose.  Each 
tossed  and  turned  and  wished  for  the  morning,  and  when 
the  morning  began  to  dawn  they  closed  their  eyes,  and 
almost  wished  the  darkness  had  continued.  A  troubled 
'sleep  fell  upon  the  husband,  and  in  it  he  murmured  the 
name  of  his  child.  The  quick  ear  of  the  mother  caught 
the  word,  and  it  thrilled  through  every  nerve.  Tears 
stole  down  her  cheeks,  and  her  heart  swelled  near  to 
bursting  with  maternal  instincts.  The  vision  of  his  child 
that  passed  before  him  had  been  no  pleasant  one,  and 
with  the  murmur  of  her  name  he  awoke  to  consciousness. 
Lifting  himself  up,  he  saw  the  tearful  face  of  his  wife. 
He  could  not  mistake  the  cause.  Why  should  she  weep 
but  for  her  child  ?  He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  when 
she  pronounced  the  name  of  Constance,  and  hid  her  tear 
ful  face  on  his  breast. 

The  fountain  was  now  unsealed,  and  the  feelings  of  the 
parents  gushed  out  like  the  flow  of  pent-up  waters.  They 
talked  of  Constance,  and  blamed  themselves,  and  wept 
for  their  lost  one.  But  where  was  she  ?  how  could  they 
find  her? 

The  sun  had  scarcely  risen,  when  Mr.  Jackson  set  out 
to  seek  for  his  child,  while  his  wife  remained  at  home  in 
a  state  of  agonizing  suspense.  He  knew  not  whether  she 
•were  alive  or  dead ;  in  New  York  or  elsewhere.  The 
second  day  brought  Mrs.  Jackson  a  letter,  it  ran  as  fol 
lows  : — 


422  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

"  I  have  searched  in  vain  for  our  Constance.  But  how 
could  it  be  otherwise  1  Who  should  know  more  about  her 
than  myself?  I  have  asked  some  of  our  old  acquaintances 
if  they  ever  heard  of  her  since  her  marriage.  They 
shake  their  heads  and  look  at  me  as  though  they  thought 
me  demented.  Laura  Wykoff,  you  know,  married  some 
years  ago.  I  called  upon  her.  She  knew  little  or  no 
thing;  but  said,  she  had  heard  that  her  husband  who  had 
become  dissipated  had  left  her  and  gone  off  to  Baltimore. 
She  thought  it  highly  probable  that  she  had  been  dead 
some  years.  She  treated  me  coldly  enough.  But  I  feel 
nothing  for  myself.  Poor,  dear  child  !  where  can  thy  lot 
be  cast?  Perhaps,  how  dreadful  the  thought!  she  may 
have  dragged  her  drooping,  dying  form  past  our  dwell 
ing,  once  her  peaceful  home,  and  looked  her  last  look 
upon  the  door  shut  to  her  for  ever,  while  the  cold  winds 
of  winter  chilled  her  heart  in  its  last  pulsations.  Oh,  I 
fear  we  have  murdered  our  poor  child !  Every  meagre- 
looking,  shrinking  female  form  I  pass  on  the  street,  makes 
my  heart  throb.  '  Perhaps  that  is  Constance,'  I  will  say, 
and  hasten  to  read  the  countenance  of  the  forlorn  one. 
But  I  turn  away,  and  sigh ;  « where,  where  can  she  be  ?' 

"  Since  writing  this,  I  have  seen  a  young  man  who 
knew  her  husband.  He  says,  that  after  the  failure  of  a 
house  in  which  Wilmer  was  employed,  he  went  to  Balti 
more  and  took  Constance  with  him.  He  says,  he  knows 
this  to  be  so,  because  he  was  well  acquainted  with  Wil 
mer,  and  shook  hands  with  him  on  the  steamboat  when 
he  went  away.  I  hinted  to  him  what  I  had  heard  about 
Wilmer's  leaving  her.  He  repelled  the  insinuation  with 
warmth,  and  said,  that  he,  Wilmer,  would  have  died  rather 
than  cause  Constance  a  painful  feeling — that  she  certainly 
did  go  with  him,  for  when  he  parted  with  Wilmer,  Con 
stance  was  leaning  on  his  arm.  He  says,  she  looked  pale 
and  troubled ;  and  mentioned  that  they  had  with  them  a 
sweet  little  baby.  Oh,  how  my  heart  yearns  after  my 
child ! 

"  I  have  since  learned  the  name  of  the  firm  in  Balti 
more  in  whose  employment  he  was,  shortly  after  he  went 
there.  To-morrow  morning  I  shall  go  to  that  city.  You 
shall  hear  from  me  on  my  arrival." 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  423 

Nearly  a  week  passed  before  Mrs.  Jackson  received 
further  intelligence  from  her  husband.  I  will'not  attempt 
to  describe  her  feelings  during  that  long  time.  In  suffer 
ing  or  joy  we  discover  how  relative  and  artificial  are  all 
our  ideas  of  time. 

The  next  letter  ran  thus : — 

"  Here  I  am  in  Baltimore,  but  it  seems  no  nearer  find 
ing  our  child  than  when  I  was  in  New  York.  The  firm 
in  whose  employment  Wilrner  was  shortly  after  his  arri 
val  in  Baltimore,  has  been  dissolved  some  years ;  and  I 
am  told  that  neither  of  the  partners  is  now  in  this  city. 
I  have  not  been  able  to  learn  the  name  of  a  single  clerk 
who  was  in  their  store.  I  feel  disheartened,  yet  more 
eager  every  day  to  find  our  lost  one.  Where  can  she  be? 

"  A  day  more  has  passed  since  my  arrival  here,  and  I 
have  a  little  hope.  I  have  found  one  of  his  former  fellow- 
clerks.  He  says,  that  he  thinks  Wilmer  is  still  in  town. 
I  do  not  want  to  advertise  for  him,  if  I  can  help  it,  but 
shall  do  so  before  I  leave  the  city,  if  other  means  fail. 
This  young  man  tells  me,  that  when  he  knew  him  he  had 
three  children.  He  never  saw  our  Constance.  •  He  re 
presents  Wilmer  as  having  been  in  bad  health,  and  as 
generally  appearing  dejected.  He  says,  all  his  furniture 
was  once  seized  and  sold  by  the  sheriff  for  rent,  but  that 
it  was  redeemed  next  day  by  his  employers,  who  treated 
him  very  kindly  on  the  occasion.  I  have  heard  nothing 
of  the  poor  boy  that  has  not  prepossessed  me  in  his 
favour.  I  fear  he  has  had  a  hard  time  of  it.  How  much 
happiness  have  we  lost  —  how  much  misery  have  we 
occasioned  ! — Surely  we  have  lived  in  vain  all  our  lives ! 
I  feel  more  humbled  every  day  since  I  left  home. 

"  Since  yesterday  I  have  learned  that  he  was  in  the 
city  less  than  a  year  ago — and  that  Constance  was  living. 
How  my  heart  throbs !  Shall  I  see  my  own  dear  child 
again?  Theodore,  I  fear,  is  in  very  bad  health,  if  still 
alive.  He  had  to  give  up  a  good  situation  about  a  year 
ago,  as  book-keeper  in  a  large  establishment  here,  where 
he  was  much  esteemed,  on  account  of  his  health  giving 
way  so  fast  under  the  confinement.  I  believe  he  took 
another  situation  as  salesman  in  a  retail  store,  on  a  very 
small  salary.  Some  one  told  me  that  Constance  had  been 
under  the  necessity  of  taking  in  sewing,  to  help  to  get  a 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

living — and  all  this  time  we  had  abundance  all  around  us! 
I  call  myself,  '  wretch,' —  and  so  I  would  call  any  other 
man  who  would  cast  off  his  child,  as  I  have  done  —  a 
tender  flower  to  meet  the  cold  winds  of  autumn. 

#  #  *  *  * 

"  I  have  seen  my  child  !  my  poor  dear  Constance  !  But 
oh,  how  changed !  While  passing  along  the  street  to-day, 
almost  in  despair  of  ever  finding  her  —  a  slender  female, 
about  the  same  height  of  Constance,  passed  me  hastily. 
There  was  something  peculiar,  I  thought,  about  her,  and 
I  felt  as  I  had  never  yet  felt,  while  near  a  stranger.  I 
followed  her,  scarce  knowing  the  reason  why.  She 
entered  a  clothing-store,  and  I  went  in  after  her,  and 
asked  to  look  at  some  article,  I  scarce  knew  what.  Her 
first  word  startled  me  as  would  a  shock  of  electricity. 
It  was  my  own  child.  But  I  could  not  make  myself 
known  to  her  there.  She  laid  down  upon  the  counter 
three  vests,  and  then  presented  a  small  book,  in  which  to 
have  the  work  entered.  The  entry  was  made,  and  the 
book  handed  back. 

*' «  There  are  just  three  dollars  due  you,'  said  the  man. 

" '  Three-and-a-half,  I  believe  it  is,  sir.' 

" « No,  it 's  only  three.' 

"'Then  I  have  calculated  wrong.  I  thought  it  was 
three-and-a-half.' 

"  How  mournful  and  disappointed  was  her  tone  ! 

"  After  standing  for  some  time  looking  over  her  book, 
she  said  in  a  lighter  voice,  « well,  I  believe  I  am  right. 
See  here ;  I  have  made  twenty-eight  vests,  and  at  twelve- 
and-a-half  cents  each,  that  is  three  dollars  and  a  half.' 

" '  Well,  I  believe  you  are  right,'  said  the  man,  in  a 
changed  tone,  after  looking  over  the  book  again. 

" '  Can  you  pay  me  to-day  ?  I  am  much  in  want 
of  it.' 

" '  No,  I  can't.  I  have  a  thousand  dollars  to  pay  in 
bank,  arid  I  cannot  spare  anything  before  two  or  three 
days.' 

"  She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  went  slowly  towards 
the  door ;  lingered  for  a  short  time,  and  then  turned  to 
the  man  again.  I  then  saw  for  the  first  time,  for  ten  long 
years,  her  face.  How  thin  and  pale  it  was !  how  trou 
bled  its  expression!  —  But  it  was  the  face  of  our  dear 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  425 

Constance.  She  did  not  look  towards  me ;  but  turned 
again  to  the  shop-keeper,  and  said, 

" '  Be  kind  enough,  sir,  to  let  me  have  one  dollar.  I 
want  it  very  much  !' 

" « You  give  me  more  trouble  about  your  money  than 
any  other  workman  I  have,'  said  the  man  roughly,  as  he 
handed  her  a  dollar. 

"  She  took  it,  unheeding  the  cruel  remark,  and  before 
I  could  make  up  my  mind  how  to  act,  glided  quickly 
away.  I  followed  as  hastily,  and  continued  to  walk  after 
her,  until  I  saw  her  enter  a  large,  old-fashioned  brick 
building.  About  this  dwelling,  there  was  no  air  of  com 
fort.  In  the  door  sat  a  little  girl,  and  two  boys,  pale,  but 
pleasant-looking  children.  One  of  them  clapped  his  little 
hands  as  Constance  passed  them,  and  then  got  up  and 
ran  after  her  into  the  house.  They  all  had  her  own 
bright  eyes.  I  would  have  known  them  for  her's  any 
where. 

"  Does  it  not  seem  strange  that  I  hesitated  to  go  in  at 
once  to  my  child.  But  I  am  at  a  loss  what  to  do. 
Sometimes  I  think  that  I  will  wait  until  you  come  on,  and 
make  her  heart  glad  with  the  presence  of  both  at  once. 
To-morrow  I  will  write  you  again.  The  mail  is  just 
closing ;  and  I  must  send  this." 

After  Wilmer  had  received  the  kindly  proffered  relief 
from  his  employers,  in  an  increase  of  salary,  he  was  less 
troubled  about  the  daily  wants  of  his  family.  But  other 
sources  of  keen  anxiety  soon  presented  themselves.  His 
own  health  began  to  give  way  so  rapidly  as  to  awaken 
in  his  mind,  fearful  apprehensions  of  approaching  inability 
to  support  his  family;  and  Constance  was  not  strong. 
Too  often,  the  pain  in  his  breast  and  side  was  so  severe 
as  to  make  his  place  at  the  desk  little  less  than  torture. 
A  confirmed,  short,  dry  cough,  not  severe,  but  constant, 
also  awakened  his  liveliest  fears. 

At  the  end  of  a  year  from  the  time  when  his  employers 
began  to  feel  a  kind  interest  in  him,  he  was  removed  from 
the  desk,  and  given  more  active  employment  as  salesman 
and  out-of-door  clerk.  The  benefit  of  this  change  was 
soon  felt.  The  pain  in  his  breast  and  side  gradually  gave 
way,  his  appetite  increased,  and  his  cough  became  less 

52 


426  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

and  less  irritating.     But  this  improvement  was  only  tern 
porary.     The    disease    had    become   too   deeply  rooted. 
True,  he  suffered  much  less  than  while  confined  at  the 
desk,  but  the  morbid  indications  were   too   constant  to 
leave  him  much  of  the  flattery  of  hope. 

Another  year  gradually  rolled  away,  and  with  it  came 
more  changes,  and  causes  of  concern.  A  little  stranger 
had  come  into  his  family,  making  three  the  number  of  his 
babes,  and  adding  to  the  list  of  his  cares  and  his  expenses; 
and  it  must  also  be  said,  to  his  pleasures.  For  what 
parent,  with  the  heart  of  a  parent,  be  his  condition  what 
it  may,  but  rejoices  in  the  number  of  the  little  ones  whose 
eyes  brighten  at  his  coming  ?  But  there  was  a  change  of 
greater  importance  in  his  prospects.  The  firm  in  whose 
service  he  was,  became  involved  and  had  to  wind  up  their 
business.  All  the  clerks  were  in  a  short  time  discharged, 
and  Wilmer  among  the  rest.  The  time  was  one  of  great 
commercial  pressure,  and  many  long-established  houses 
were  forced  to  yield ;  others  were  driven  to  great  curtail 
ment  of  expenses.  The  consequence  was  that  few  were 
employing  clerks,  and  many  dispensing  with  their  services. 
Under  the  circumstances,  Wilmer  found  it  impossible  to 
obtain  employment.  Daily  did  he  call  at  the  various 
stores  and  counting-rooms  in  the  hope  of  meeting  with  a 
situation,  only  to  return  to  his  dwelling  more  depressed 
and  disheartened. 

By  great  economy,  in  view  of  approaching  ill  health, 
-he  had  managed  to  lay  up,  since  the  increase  in  his  wages, 
nearly  the  amount  of  that  increase.  He  had  done  this, 
by  living  upon  the  same  amount  that  he  before  found  to 
be  inadequate  to  the  support  of  his  family.  How  this 
was  done,  they  only  can  know  who  have  resolutely,  from 
necessity,  made  the  same  experiment,  and  found  that  the 
real  amount  necessary  to  live  upon  is  much  smaller  than 
is  usually  supposed.  This  sum,  about  one  hundred  dol 
lars,  he  had  when  he  was  thrown  out  of  employment 
scarcely  enough  to  last  for  three  months,  under  their  pre 
sent  expenses.  It  was  with  painful  reluctance  that  Wil- 
mer  trespassed  upon  this  precious  store,  but  he  found 
necessity  a  hard  task-master. 

Amid  the  gloom  and  darkness  of  his  condition  and 
prospects,  there  was  one  bright  star  shining  upon  him 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  407 

with  an  ever-constant  light.  No  cloud  could  dim  or 
obscure  it.  That  light,  that  cheerful  star,  was  the  wife 
of  his  bosom.  The  tie  that  bound  her  to  her  husband 
was  not  an  external  one  alone;  she  was  wedded  to  him 
in  spirit.  Her  affection  for  him,  as  sorrow,  and  doubt, 
and  fearful  foreboding  of  coming  evils  gathered  about 
him,  assumed  more  and  more  of  the  mother's  careful  and 
earnest  love  for  the  peace  of  her  child.  She  met  him 
with  an  ever-cheerful  countenance ;  gently  soothed  his 
fears,  and  constantly  referred  him  to  the  overruling  care 
of  Divine  Providence.  Affliction  had  wrought  its  proper 
work  upon  her  affections,  and  as  they  became  gradually 
separated  from  the  world,  they  found  a  higher  and  purer 
source  of  attraction.  From  a  thoughtless  girl,  she  had 
become  a  reflecting  woman,  and  with  reflection  had  come 
a  right  understanding  of  her  duties.  An  angel  of  com 
fort  is  such  a  woman  to  a  man  of  keen  sensibilities,  who 
finds  his  struggle  in  the  world  a  hard  and  painful  one. 

Two  months  passed  away  in  the  vain  effort  to  obtain 
employment.  Every  avenue  seemed  shut  against  him. 
The  power  of  endurance  was  tried  to  its  utmost  strength, 
when  he  was  offered  a  situation  in  an  iron-store,  to  han 
dle  iron,  and  occasionally  perform  the  duties  of  a  clerk. 
Three  hundred  dollars  was  the  salary.  He  caught  at  it, 
as  his  last  hope,  with  eagerness,  and  at  once  entered  upon 
his  duties.  He  found  them  more  toilsome  than  he  had 
expected.  The  business  was  a  heavy  one,  and  kept  him 
at  fatiguing  labour  nearly  the  whole  day.  Never  having 
been  used  to  do  hard  work,  he  found  on  the  morning  of 
the  second  day,  that  the  muscles  of  his  back,  arms,  and 
legs,  were  so  strained,  that  he  could  hardly  move  himself. 
He  was  as  sore  as  if  he  had  been  beaten  with  a  heavy 
stick.  This,  however,  in  a  great  measure,  wore  off,  after 
he  began  to  move  about ;  but  he  found  his  strength  giving 
way  much  sooner  on  this  day  than  on  the  preceding  one. 
At  night,  his  head  ached  badly,  he  had  no  appetite,  and 
was  feverish.  On  the  next  morning,  however,  he  went 
resolutely  to  work;  but  he  felt  so  unfit  for  it,  that  he 
finally,  referring  in  his  own  mind  to  what  he  had  suffered 
on  a  former  occasion  by  not  explaining  his  true  situation, 
determined  to  mention  to  his  new  employer  how  he  felt, 
and  ask  a  little  respite  for  a  day  or  two,  until  his  strength 


428  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

should  return.  He,  accordingly,  left  the  large  pile  of  iron 
\vhich  he  had  commenced  assorting,  and  entered  the 
counting-room.  He  felt  a  great  degree  of  hesitation,  but 
strove  to  keep  it  down,  while  he  summoned  up  resolution 
to  utter  distinctly  and  mildly  his  request. 

The  man  of  iron  was  busy  over  his  bill-book  when 
Wilmer  sought  his  presence,  and  looked  up  with  a  stern 
aspect. 

"  I  feel  quite  sick,"  began  Theodore,  an  older  man 
than  his  employer,  "  from  working  beyond  my  strength 
for  the  last  two  days,  and  should  be  very  glad  if 
you  could  employ  me  at  something  lighter  for  as  long  a 
time,  until  I  recover  myself,  when  1  will  be  much  stronger 
than  when  I  began,  and  able  to  keep  steadily  on.  I  have 
never  been  used  to  hard  labour,  and  feel  it  the  more 
severely  now." 

Mr. looked  at  him  with  a  slight  sneer  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  replied, — 

"  I  can't  have  any  playing  about  me !  If  my  work 
suits  you,  well ;  if  not,  there  are  a  plenty  whom  it  will 
suit." 

Silently  did  Wilmer  withdraw  from  the  presence  of  the 
unfeeling  man,  and  turned  with  aching  limbs  to  his  toil 
some  work. 

At  night  he  found  himself  much  worse  than  on  the  pre 
ceding  evening;  and  on  the  ensuing  morning  he  was 
unable  to  go  to  the  store.  It  was  nearly  a  week  before 
he  could  again  find  his  way  out,  and  then  he  was  in  a 
sadly  debilitated  state,  from  the  effects  of  a  fever  brought 
on  by  over-exertion.  He  went  to  the  iron-store,  and  for 
mally  declined  his  situation.  No  offer  was  made  to  re 
engage  him,  and  as  he  turned  away  from  the  door  of  the 
counting-room,  he  heard  the  man  remark,  in  a  sneering 
under-tone  to  a  person  present,  "  a  poor  milk-sop !" 

Generally,  the  unfortunate  are  stung  to  the  quick  b^ 
any  reflection  upon  them  by  those  in  a  better  condition ; 
and  few  were  more  alive  to  ridicule  than  Wilmer.  Both 
the  condition  and  the  constitutional  infirmity  combined, 

made  the  remark  of  Mr. produce  in  his  bosom  a 

tempest  of  agitation ;  and  for  a  moment  he  was  roused 
from  his  usual  calm  exterior ;  but  he  recovered  himself  as 
quick  as  thought,  and  hurried  away.  He  did  not  go 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  429 

directly  home,  but  wandered  listlessly  about  for  several 
hours.  When  he  returned  at  the  usual  dinner  hour,  he 
found  his  wife  busily  engaged  in  preparing  dinner.  Her 
babe  was  asleep  in  the  cradle,  by  which  sat  the  eldest 
boy,  touching  it  with  his  foot,  while  the  other  little  one, 
about  four  years  old,  was  prattling  away  to  her  baby- 
doll. 

"  Why  Constance,  where  is  Mary  ?" 

"  She  has  gone  away,"  was  the  smiling  reply. 

"  How  comes  that  ?  I  thought  she  appeared  very 
well  satisfied." 

"  She  was  very  well  pleased  with  her  place,  I  believe ; 
but  as  I  have  taken  it  into  my  head  to  do  without  her, 
and  am  a  very  wilful  creature,  as  you  know,  why,  there 
was  no  remedy  but  to  let  her  get  another  place.  So  I 
told  her  as  much  this  morning,  and  she  has  already  found 
a  pleasant  situation  —  not  so  good,  however,  as  this,  she 
says.  Come,  don't  look  so  serious  about  it !  Theodore 
can  bring  water  for  me,  and  you  can  cut  the  wood,  and 
among  us  we  will  do  very  well.  It  is  a  pity  if  two  peo 
ple  can't  take  care  of  themselves,  and  three  other  little 
bodies  besides.  And  just  see  what  we  will  save  1 — Four 
dollars  a  month  for  her  wages,  and  her  boarding  into  the 
bargain.  And  you  know,  Mary,  though  a  kind,  good  sort 
of  a  body,  and  very  industrious  and  obliging,  eat  almost 
as  much  as  all  the  rest  of  us  together." 

"  Well,  Constance,  put  as  good  a  face  upon  the  matter 
as  you  can,  but  I  feel  that  stern  necessity  has  brought 
you  to  it." 

"  You  must  not  talk  so  much  about '  stern  necessity,' 
Theodore.  It  is  surely  no  great  hardship  for  me  to  sweep 
up  the  house  every  morning,  and  get  the  little  food  we 
eat.  I  know  that  our  income  is  cut  off,  for  I  don't  sup 
pose  you  are  going  back  to  that  iron-store  again.  But 
there  will  be  a  way  opened  for  us.  The  kind  Being  who 
is  trying  BS  for  our  good  will  not  leave  us  in  our  last 
extremity.  It  is  for  us  to  do  the  best  we  can,  with  what 
we  can  get.  Now  that  our  certain  resources  are  with 
drawn,  it  is  for  us  to  limit  our  expenses  to  the  smallest 
possible  sum.  We  have,  it  is  true,  lived  quite  frugally 
for  the  past  year.  But  it  is  possible  for  us  to  Jive  on  much 
less  than  the  five  hundred  dollars  that  it  has  cost.  Our 


430  THE     FIERV     TRIAL. 

servant's  wages  and  boarding  were  at  least  one  hundred 
dollars;  and  by  the  present  retrenchment  we  save  that 
suin,  and  shall  livd  just  as  comfortably,  for  now  we  will 
all  help  to  take  care  of  each  other." 

"  So  far  so  good,  my  comforter !  But  where  will  the 
four  hundred  dollars  come  from  ?" 

"  Well,  let  us  go  on.  We  pay  one  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  for  this  house.  By  going  out  upon  the  suburbs  of 
the  town,  we  can  get  a  pleasant  little  house  for  five  dol 
lars  a  month." 

"  O,  no,  Constance,  you  are  too  fast." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  have  seen  just  the  little  place  that  will 
suit  us.  The  house  is  not  old,  and  everything  around  is 
sweet  and  clean.  And  it 's  plenty  big  enough  for  us." 

"  Well,  Constance,  suppose  by  so  doing  we  reduce  our 
expenses  to  three  hundred  and  ten  dollars.  Where  is  that 
sum  to  come  from  1  I  can't  get  any  work." 

"  Don't  despair,  Theodore  !  We  shall  not  be  forsaken. 
But  we  must  do  for  ourselves  the  best  we  can.  I  have 
been  turning  over  a  plan  in  my  head,  by  which  we  can 
live  much  cheaper  and  a  great  deal  happier ;  for  the  less 
it  takes  us  to  live,  the  less  care  we  shall  have  about  it." 

"  Go  on." 

"By  moving  into  a  smaller  house,  we  can  dispense 
with  a  great  many  things  which  will  then  be  of  no  use  to 
us.  These  will  bring  us  from  two  to  three  hundred  dol 
lars,  at  public  sale.  Good  furniture,  you  know,  always 
brings  good  prices." 

"Well." 

"With  this  money,  we  can  live  in  a  smaller  house, 
without  any  servant,  for  nearly  a  year;  and  surely  you 
will  get  something  to  do  by  next  spring,  even  if  you 
should  be  idle  all  winter." 

Wilmer  kissed  the  cheek  of  his  wife,  now  glowing  with 
the  excitement  of  cheerful  hope,  with  a  fervent  and  heart 
felt  affection,  and  murmuring  in  a  low  voice — "  My  com 
forting  angel !"  turned  with  a  lighter  heart  than  had  beat 
in  his  bosom  for  months,  to  caress  the  little  girl,  who  was 
clamouring  for  her  usual  kiss. 

That  afternoon  was  spent  in  discussing  the  proposed 
retrenchment,  and  in  going  to  look  at  the  little  house 
which  Mrs.  Wilmer  had  mentioned.  It  was  small,  but 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  431 

neat,  and  had  a  good  yard,  with  a  pump  at  the  door. 
They  decided  at  once  to  take  it,  and  obtained  possession 
of  the  key. 

No  time  was  lost  in  offering  their  superfluous  furniture 
at  public  sale;  and  to  the  satisfaction  of  both  Wilmer  and 
his  wife,  the  auctioneer  returned  them,  after  deducting 
his  commissions,  the  net  sum  of  three  hundred  dollars. 

In  one  week  from  the  time  of  Mrs.  Wilmer's  proposi 
tion,  they  were  snugly  packed  away  in  their  new  resi 
dence. 

Late  in  the  fall,  Wilmer  obtained  a  situation  as  collec 
tor  for  one  of  the  newspaper  offices,  on  a  salary  of  four 
hundred  dollars.  This,  under  the  reduced  expense  sys 
tem,  and  with  the  surplus  on  hand,  afforded  them  ample 
means.  The  exercise  in  the  open  air  which  it  allowed 
him,  was  greatly  conducive  to  his  health,  and  he  soon 
showed  considerable  improvement  in  body  and  mind. 
Things  went  on  smoothly  and  satisfactorily  until  about 
Christmas,  when  he  took  a  violent  cold,  on  a  wet  day, 
which  fell  upon  his  lungs,  and  soon  brought  him  to  a  very 
weak  state.  From  this,  his  recovery  was  so  slow,  and 
his  prospect  of  health  so  unpromising,  that  he  found  it  a 
matter  of  necessity  to  decline  his  situation,  which  was 
retained  for  him  as  long  as  the  office  could  wait. 

During  the  whole  of  the  remaining  inclement  weather 
of  the  winter  season,  he  found  it  necessary  to  keep  within 
doors,  as  he  invariably  took  cold  whenever  he  ventured 
out. 

Perceiving  the  failure  of  her  husband's  health  to  be 
certainly  and  rapidly  progressing,  Mrs.  Wilmer  dwelt  in 
her  own  mind  with  painful  solicitude  upon  the  probable 
means  of  support  for  them  all,  when  his  strength  should 
so  entirely  give  way,  as  to  render  him  altogether  unfitted 
for  business.  The  only  child  of  over-fond  parents,  rich 
in  this  world's  goods,  she  had  received  a  thorough,  fash 
ionable  education,  which  fitted  her  for  doing  no  one  thing 
by  which  she  could  earn  any  money.  Her  music  had 
been  confined  to  a  few  fashionable  waltzes  and  overtures; 
her  French  and  Spanish  were  nearly  forgotten,  and  her 
proficiency  in  drawing  and  embroidery  had  never  been 
very  great.  In  her  girlish  days  she  could  dance  grace 
fully,  and  talk  fashionable  nonsense  with  a  bewitching  air 


432  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

when  it  became  necessary  to  amuse  some  sprig  of  fashion, 
or  wield  good  plain  common  sense  with  common  sense 
people,  when  occasion  called  for  it.  But  as  to  possess 
ing  resources  in  herself  for  getting  a  living  in  the  world, 
that  was  another  matter  altogether.  But  there  is  a  crea 
tive  power  in  necessity,  which  acts  with  wonderful  skill 
•when  the  hour  of  trial  comes.  That  hour  had  come  with 
Constance,  and  she  steadily  cast  about  her  for  the  means 
of  earning  money. 

Next  door  to  where  she  lived  was  a  widow  woman  with 
three  grown-up  daughters,  who  were  always  busy  work 
ing  for  the  clothing-stores,  or  "  slop-shops,"  as  they  were 
called.  She  had  made  their  acquaintance  during  the 
winter,  and  found  them  kind  and  considerate  of  others, 
and  ever  ready  with  an  encouraging  word,  or  serious 
advice  when  called  for.  The  very  small  compensation 
which  they  received  for  their  work,  encouraged  her  but 
little,  when  she  thought  of  obtaining  something  to  do  in 
the  same  way.  But  the  more  she  thought  of  other  means, 
the  less  she  found  herself  fitted  for  doing  anything  else, 
and  at  last  determined  to  learn  how  to  make  common 
pantaloons,  that  she  might  have  some  resource  to  fly  to, 
when  all  others  failed.  She  found  her  kind  neighbours 
ready  to  give  her  all  the  instruction  she  needed,  and  they 
also  kindly  offered  to  introduce  her  to  the  shops  whenever 
she  should  determine  to  take  in  work.  It  did  not  take 
her  long  to  learn,  and  soon  after  she  had  acquired  the  art, 
as  her  husband's  health  still  continued  to  decline,  she 
began,  in  odd  times,  to  make  common  pantaloons  and 
vests,  for  which  she  received  the  meagre  compensation 
of  twelve-and-a-half  cents  each.  It  took  her  about  one- 
half  of  her  time,  actively  engaged,  to  attend  to  her  family. 
During  the  remaining  half  of  each  day  and  evening,  she 
would  make  a  vest  or  a  pair  of  pantaloons,  which  at  the 
end  of  the  week  would  bring  her  in  seventy-five  cents. 

•When  she  looked  at  this  small  sum,  the  aggregate  of  a 
week's  labour,  during  leisure  from  the  concerns  of  her 
family,  she  felt  but  little  encouraged  in  prospect  of  having 
the  whole  of  her  little  family  dependent  upon  her ;  and 
for  some  weeks  she  entertained,  in  the  silence  of  her  own 
heart,  a  sickening  consciousness  of  coming  destitution, 
which  she  might  in  vain  endeavour  to  prevent.  Gradual- 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL  433 

ly  her  mind  reacted  from  this  painful  state,  and  she  gave 
daily  diligence  to  her  employments,  entertaining  a  firm 
trust  in  Divine  Providence. 

As  the  spring  opened,  her  husband's  health  revived  a 
little,  and  he  found  employment  at  a  small  compensation 
in  a  retail  dry-goods  store.  This  just  suited  his  strength 
and  the  state  of  his  health,  and  he  continued  at  it  for 
something  like  three  years.  During  this  period  nothing 
of  material  interest  occurred,  and  we  pass  it  over  in 
silence. 

The  long-looked-for,  long-dreaded  time,  when  Wilmer's 
health  should  entirely  give  way,  at  length  came;  and 
although  through  the  kindness  of  his  employers  he  had 
been  retained  in  the  store  long  after  he  was  able  to  do  his 
full  duty,  yet  at  last  he  had  to  give  up. 

It  would  require  a  pen  more  skilled  to  portray  the 
workings  of  the  human  heart,  than  mine,  to  sketch  his 
real  feelings,  when  he  received  his  last  month's  wages, 
the  last  that  he  felt  he  would  ever  earn  for  his  family,  and 
turned  his  steps  homeward.  He  loved  the  wife  who  had 
forsaken  the  wealth  and  comfort  of  a  father's  house,  and 
had  been  all  in  all  to  him  through  sunshine  and  storm, 
with  deep  and  tearful  affection ;  he  would  have  sacrificed 
everything  for  her ;  and  yet  for  years  had  he  been  com 
pelled  to  see  her  toil  for  a  portion  of  the  bread  that  nour 
ished  her  and  her  children.  He  loved  his  little  ones,  with 
a  yearning  tenderness ;  the  more  fervently  and  passion 
ately,  now  that  he  could  no  longer  minister  to  their  wants. 
How  could  he  meet  them  all  on  this  evening,  and  see  their 
dear  faces  brighten  up  on  his  entrance,  when  he  could  no 
longer  earn  them  food,  or  provide  them  with  comforts  ? 
It  was  with  a  strong  effort  that  he  kept  down  his  feelings, 
as  he  entered  his  home,  now  comprised  in  two  rooms  in 
the  second  story  of  an  old  house  in  Commerce  street, 
where  they  had  removed,  to  be  nearer  his  place  of  busi 
ness,  the  long  walk  having  been  too  fatiguing  for  him, 
after  standing  behind  the  counter  all  day. 

Mrs.  Wilmer's  quick  eye  at  once  detected  a  change  in 
the  expression  of  her  husband's  countenance,  but  she  said 
nothing.  After  tea,  the  children  were  all  put  to  bed  in 
the  next  room,  and  they  were  then  alone.  Wilmer  sat  in 
deeo  thought  by  the  table,  shading  his  face  with  his  hand 


434  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

when  his  wife  came  in  from  the  chamber  where  she  had 
been  with  the  children.  Twining  her  arm  round  his 
neck,  she  bent  over  him,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  tender 
concern — 

"  Why  so  thoughtful,  Theodore  ?" 

He  did  not  reply  for  some  moments,  nor  lift  his  head, 
and  Constance  was  about  to  repeat  her  question  in  a  more 
earnest  voice,  when  a  hot  tear  fell  upon  her  hand.  She 
had  seen  him  often  sorely  tried  and  painfully  exercised, 
but  had  never  known  him  to  shed  a  tear.  There  had 
always  been  a  troubled  silence  in  his  manner  when  dif 
ficulties  pressed  upon  him,  but  tears  moistened  not  his 
eyes.  Well  might  her  heart  sink  down  in  her  bosom  at 
that  strange  token  of  intense  suffering. 

"  Dear  Theodore !"  she  said,  in  a  changed  tone,  "  tell 
me  what  it  is  that  troubles  you !" 

A  shuddering  sob  was  the  only  reply,  as  he  leaned  his 
head  back  upon  her  bosom. 

"  Say,  dearest,  what  has  happened  ?" 

The  tears  now  fell  from  his  eyes  like  rain,  and  sob 
nfter  sob  shook  his  frame  convulsively. 

Constance  waited  in  silence  until  the  agitation  subsided, 
and  then  gently  urged  him  to  tell  her  what  it  was  that 
troubled  him  so  painfully. 

"  I  am  broken  in  spirits  now,  Constance.  I  am  a  weak 
child.  I  have  received  the  last  blow,  and  manhood  has 
altogether  forsaken  me." 

"  Tell  me !  oh,  tell  me  !  Theodore,  all,  all !  Do  not  dis 
tress  me  by  further  silence,  or  mystery !" 

A  pause  of  some  minutes  succeeded,  during  which 
Wilmer  was  making  strong  efforts  to  overcome  his  feel 
ings. 

"  Constance,"  he  at  length  said,  mournfully,  "  I  have 
tried  long,  and  much  beyond  my  strength,  to  earn  the 
small  sum  that  it  took  to  support  our  little  ones ;  but  nature 
has  at  last  given  way.  Here  is  the  last  dollar  I  shall  pro 
bably  ever  earn,  and  now  I  shall  be  a  burden  upon  you, 
eating  the  bread  of  my  children,  while  they,  poor  things, 
will  hunger  for  the  morsel  that  nourishes  me.  I  do  not 
wonder  that  manly  feelings  have  passed  away  with  my 
strength.  Constance,  what  shall  we  do  ?" 

An  angel  of  comfort  is  woman  to  life's  last  extremity. 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  435 

Fragile  as  a  reed,  that  bends  to  the  passing  breeze,  when 
the  sunshine  of  prosperity  is  bright  above  and  around,  she 
oecomes  the  tall  oak,  deep-rooted  and  strong-branched, 
•when  the  wintry  storms  of  adversity  sweep  over  the 
earth.  No  trial  subdues  her,  no  privation  brings  a  mur 
mur  of  discontent.  She  will  hope  to  the  last,  and  still 
have  a  smile  of  assurance  for  those  who,  in  their  despon 
dency,  have  even  cast  away  hope.  Constance  Wilmer 
was  a  woman,  and  as  a  woman,  her  worth  was  felt  more 
and  more,  as  troubles  came  thicker  and  faster. 

"  Dear  husband !"  she  said,  in  a  steady  and  cheerful 
voice,  "  you  have  forgotten  that  line,  so  true  and  so  com 
forting — 

" '  Despair  is  never  quite  despair' — 

"  I  see  no  cause  for  such  painful  feelings.  Pinching  want 
is  not  upon  us  yet,  and  I  am  sure  the  time  will  never 
come  when  our  children  shall  ask  food  at  our  hands  in 
vain.  Trial,  which  is  always  for  our  good,  will  never 
reach  beyond  the  point  of  endurance." 

"  The  burden  is  all  upon  you,  Constance.  Heaven 
grant  that  you  may  have  strength  to  bear  it !" 

"  I  fear  not  for  the  strength.  That  will  come  in  due 
time.  Now  we  have  food  and  raiment,  and  therewith  let 
us  be  content.  If  God  so  clothe  the  grass  of  the  field, 
which  to-day  is,  and  to-morrow  is  cast  into  the  oven,  will 
he  not  clothe  us  ?  He  that  feedeth  the  young  ravens  when 
they  cry,  will  not  turn  away  from  us.  Are  we  not  of 
more  value  than  many  sparrows?" 

"  Bless  you  !  bless  you !  Constance." 

"  Do  not,  then,  dear  husband !  cast  away  your  con 
fidence.  If  the  burden  is  to  be  all  upon  me,  it  will  be 
lightened  by  your  cheerful  countenance  and  encouraging 
words.  I  shall  need  them  both,  doubtless ;  then  do  not 
withhold  them." 

Her  voice  lost  its  steadiness,  trembled  a  moment,  and 
then  she  hid  her  face,  in  silence  and  in  tears,  upon  his 
bosom. 

As  Wilmer  had  foreseen,  the  strength  for  further  labour 
was  gone  for  ever.  He  lingered  about  for  a  few  weeks, 
and  then  took  to  his  bed.  And  now  came  the  time  for 
the  full  trial  of  Mrs.  Wilmer's  mental  and  bodily  strength. 


436  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

Notwithstanding  all  her  close  application  at  the  needle, 
the  small  sum  that  had  been  saved  from  former  earn 
ings,  slowly,  but  steadily  diminished.  Daily  she  increas 
ed  her  exertions,  and  encroached  further  upon  the  hours 
of  rest ;  but  still  there  was  a  steady  withdrawal  of  the 
hoarded  treasure.  At  first,  her  confidence  in  the  Divine 
Providence  was  measurably  shaken ;  but  soon  the  waver 
ing  needle  of  her  faith  turned  steadily  to  its  polar  star. 
Her  own  health,  never  vigorous,  began  also  to  give  way 
under  the  increased  application  which  became  necessary 
for  the  support  of  the  beloved  ones,  now  entirely  depen 
dent  upon  her  labour  for  food  and  raiment.  Her  appetite, 
never  very  good,  failed  considerably,  and  consequently 
there  was  a  withdrawal  instead  of  an  increase  of  strength. 
But  none  knew  of  her  pain  or  weakness.  Her  pale  face 
was  ever  a  cheerful  one,  and  her  voice  full  of  tenderness. 

When  the  next  spring  opened,  Wilmer  was  not  only 
confined  to  the  house,  but  unable  to  sit  up,  except  for  a 
few  hours  at  a  time  through  the  day.  His  wife's  health 
had  suffered  much,  and  all  the  hours  she  sat  at  her  needle, 
were  hours  of  painful  endurance.  Spring  passed  away, 
and  summer  came.  But  the  milder  airs  had  no  kind  effect 
upon  the  fast  sinking  frame  of  her  husband.  He  was 
rapidly  going  down  to  the  grave,  his  last  hours  embitter 
ed  by  the  sight  of  his  wife  and  children  suffering  before 
him. 

During  the  month  of  August,  Wilmer  declined  so  fast, 
and  needed  such  constant  attention,  that  his  wife  could 
find  but  little  time  to  devote  to  her  needle.  What  she 
thus  lost  in  the  day-time,  she  had  to  make  up,  as  far  as 
possible,  by  encroaching  upon  the  night  hours,  and  often 
the  lamp  by  her  side  would  grow  dim  before  the  light  of 
day,  while  she  still  bent  in  weariness  and  pain,  over  the 
work  that  was  to  give  bread  to  her  children. 

For  some  months  her  work  had  been  confined  to  one 
shop,  the  master  of  which  was  not  always  punctual  in 
paying  her  the  pittance  she  earned.  Instead  of  handing 
her,  whenever  she  called,  the  trifle  due  her,  he  made  her 
procure  a  little  book  in  which  he  would  enter  the  work, 
promising  to  pay  when  it  would  amount  to  a  certain  sum. 
In  anxious  hope  would  Mrs.  Wilmer  wait  until  her  earn 
ings  rose  to  the  required  amount ;  but  not  always  then 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  437 

could  she  get  her  due ;  there  would  too  frequently  be  a 
part  payment,  or  a  request  to  call  in  a  day  or  two. 

One  day  towards  the  first  of  September,  she  found  that 
both  food  and  money  were  out.  She  was  just  finishing  a 
couple  of  vests  for  the  clothing-shop,  and  there  were  more 
than  three  dollars  due  to  her.  While  turning  over  in  her 

own  mind  the  hope  that  Mr. would  pay  her  the  small 

sum  due,  when  she  carried  in  the  work,  and  troubled  the 
while  with  fears  lest  he  should  deny  her,  as  he  had  often 
done  before;  her  husband,  whose  bright  eye  had  been 
upon  her  for  some  time,  and  whose  countenance,  unseen 
by  her,  had  expressed  an  earnest,  yet  hesitating  desire  to 
ask  for  something,  said — 

"  Constance,  I  don't  know  whether  you  are  able  to  get 
them,  but  if  you  can,  I  should  like,  above  all  things,  to 
have  some  grapes." 

"  Then  you  shall  have  some,"  Constance  replied,  earn 
estly  and  affectionately.  "  I  am  sure  they  will  help  you. 
Why  did  I  not  think  of  this  for  you  long  ago  ?" 

Resuming  her  needle,  she  plied  it  with  double  swiftness, 
her  heart  trembling  lest  when  she  asked  for  her  money  at 
the  shop,  it  should  be  refused  her.  At  last  the  work  was 
done  and  she  carried  it  in.  It  was  entered,  and  her  book 
handed  back  to  her.  She  paused  a  moment,  then  turn 
ed  to  go  out,  but  she  could  not  go  home  without  some 
money.  Hesitatingly  she  asked  to  have  her  due,  but  it 
was  refused  on  some  excuse  of  having  a  large  payment 
to  make  on  that  very  day.  Again  she  turned  to  go,  but 
again  turned  to  ask  for  only  a  part  of  what  was  her  own. 
One  dollar  was  thrown  her  with  an  unkind  remark.  The 
first  she  seized  with  avidity,  the  last  passed  her  ear  un-r 
heeded. 

How  swiftly  did  she  hurry  home  with  her  little  trea 
sure  !  more  precious  than  a  hundred  times  the  sum  had 
ever  been  before.  It  was  to  meet  the  first  expressed 
•want  of  her  husband,  to  gratify  which  she  would  herself 
have  abstained  days  from  food. 

The  grapes  were  soon  obtained,  with  some  bread,  and 
a  small  portion  of  meat,  for  the  children.  They  proved 
very  grateful  and  refreshing  to  Wilmer,  who,  soon  after 
he  had  eaten  a  few  of  them,  fell  into  a  gentle  sleep. 

The  food  which  Mrs.  Wilmer  had  bought  would  last 


438  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

them  probably  about  two  days — not  longer.  Two  months' 
rent  would  be  due  in  a  week,  amounting  to  eight  dollars. 
Their  landlord  had  threatened  to  take  some  of  their  things 
to  satisfy  the  last  months'  rent,  and  she  had  little  hope  of 
his  being  put  off  longer  than  the  expiration  of  the  two 
months.  There  were  still  two-and-a-half  dollars  due  her 
by  the  keeper  of  the  clothing-store,  which  she  knew  it 
would  be  almost  as  hard  to  get  as  to  earn. 

Not  disposed,  however,  to  sit  down  and  brood  over  her 
difficulties,  which  only  made  them  worse,  she  went  to 
work  in  the  best  spirit  possible  to  overcome  them.  She 
obtained  more  work,  and  bent  herself  again  over  her  daily 
employment. 

She  was  sitting  with  an  aching  head  and  troubled  heart 
at  her  work  on  the  next  morning,  having  only  sought  a 
brief  repose  through  the  night,  when  a  smart  tap  at  the 
door  roused  her  from  her  abstraction  of  mind. 

"  Does  Mrs.  Wilmer  live  here,  ma'am  f  asked  a  man. 

"  That  is  my  name/' 

"Then  I  am  directed  to  leave  this  basket," — and  the 
man  deposited  his  burden  on  the  floor,  and  was  gone 
before  another  word  could  be  spoken. 

Mrs.  Wilmer  stood  for  a  moment  in  mute  surprise,  and 
then  removed  the  covering  off  the  basket.  It  contained 
tea,  coffee,  sugar,  rice,  meat,  bread,  and  various  other 
articles  of  food ;  and  also,  a  letter  directed  to  "  Constance 
Wilmer."  She  broke  the  seal  with  an  anxious  and  trem 
bling  heart.  It  contained  a  fifty  dollar  note,  and  these 
brief  words : — 

"  Put  by  your  work  —  you  are  cared  for  —  there  is  help 
coming,  and  now  very  nigh — be  of  good  cheer !" 

The  coarse  garment  she  still  held  in  her  hand,  fell  to 
the  floor.  Her  fingers  released  themselves  from  it  by  an 
instinctive  effort  which  she  could  not  control.  Her  head 
reeled  for  a  moment,  and  she  sunk  into  a  chair,  overcome 
by  a  tumult  of  contending  feelings.  From  this,  she  was 
aroused  by  the  voice  of  her  husband,  who  anxiously 
inquired  the  contents  of  the  letter.  He  read  it,  and  saw 
the  enclosure,  and  the  supply  of  food  in  the  basket,  and 
then  clasped  his  hands  and  looked  up  with  mute  thankful 
ness  to  heaven. 

Mrs.  Wilmer  obeyed,  with  a  confidence  for  which  she 
could  not  account,  the  injunction  of  her  stranger-friend  • 


THE     FIERY     TRIAL.  439 

and  almost  hourly  for  the  first  day  referred  to  the  charac 
ters  of  the  letter,  which  seemed  familiar  to  her  eye.  That 
she  had  seen  the  writing  before,  she  was  certain;  but 
where,  or  when,  she  could  not  tell. 

Relieved  from  daily  care  and  toil,  she  had  more  time 
to  give  to  her  sick  husband.  She  found  him  nearer  the 
grave  than  she  had  supposed. 

Four  days  more  passed  away,  and  Wilmer  had  come 
down  to  the  very  brink  of  the  dark  river  of  death. 

It  was  night.  The  two  younger  children  were  asleep, 
and  the  oldest  boy,  just  in  his  tenth  year,  with  his  mother, 
stood  anxiously  over  the  low  bed,  upon  which  lay,  gasp 
ing  for  breath,  the  dying  husband  and  father.  The  widow, 
who  cannot  forget  the  dear  image  of  her  departed  one ;  the 
orphan,  who  remembers  the  dying  agony  of  a  fond  father, 
can  realize  in  a  great  degree  the  sorrows  which  pressed 
upon  the  hearts  of  these  lone  watchers  by  the  bed  of  death. 

The  last  hours  of  Wilmer's  life  were  hours  of  distinct 
consciousness. 

"Constance,"  he  whispered,  in  a  low  difficult  whisper, 
while  his  bright  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  face  —  "  Con 
stance,  what  will  you  do  when  I  am  gone  ?  I  am  but  a 
burden  on  you  now ;  but  my  presence  I  feel  is  something." 

His  stricken-hearted  wife  could  make  no  answer ;  but 
the  tears  rolled  over  her  face  in  great  drops,  and  fell  fast 
upon  the  pillow  of  her  dying  husband. 

"  I  cannot  say,  '  do  not  weep,'  "  continued  Wilmer.  "  O 
that  I  could  give  a  word  of  comfort !  but  your  cup  is  full, 
running  over,  and  I  cannot  dash  it  from  your  lips : — Dear 
Constance !  you  have  been  to  me  a  wife  and  a  mother. 
Let  me  feel  your  warm  cheek  once  more  against  mine, 
for  it  is  cold,  very  cold.  Hark  !  did  you  not  hear  voices  ]" 
And  he  strained  his  eyes  towards  the  door,  half-lifting 
himself  up. 

For  a  few  moments  he  looked  eagerly  for  some  one  to 
enter,  and  then  fell  back  upon  the  bed  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
murmuring  to  himself,  in  a  low  disappointed  tone — 

"  I  thought  they  were  coming." 

"  Who,  love  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Wilmer,  eagerly.  But  her 
husband  did  not  seem  to  hear  her  question ;  but  lay  gasp 
ing  for  breath,  the  muscles  of  his  neck  and  face  distorted 
and  giving  to  his  countenance  the  ghastly  expression  of 
death. 


440  THE     FIERY     TRIAL. 

"  Who,  love  ? — who  were  coming  t"  eagerly  asked  Mrs. 
Wilmer  again,  her  own  heart  trembling  with  a  recurrence 
of  the  vague  hopes  with  which  the  mysterious  letter  and 
timely  supply  had  inspired  her, — hopes  that  had  never 
been  hinted  to  her  husband.  But  it  seemed  that  he  had 
given  the  incident  his  own  interpretation. 

But  he  heeded  not  her  question.  For  some  time  mother 
and  son  again  stood  over  him,  in  troubled  silence.  Per 
haps  half  an  hour  had  passed  since  he  had  spoken,  when 
a  slight  bustle  was  heard,  on  the  steps  below,  and  then 
feet  were  heard  quickly  ascending,  and  hastening  along 
the  passage  towards  their  chamber  door. 

"  They  come  !  They  come  !"  half-shrieked  the  dying 
man,  springing  up  in  the  bed,  and  bending  over  towards 
the  door,  which  was  hastily  flung  open.  His  eyes  glared 
upon  the  two  persons,  a  man  and  woman,  both  well  ad 
vanced  in  life,  as  they  entered.  That  one  anxious  gaze 
was  enough.  Looking  up  into  the  face  of  Constance, 
against  whose  breast  his  head  had  sunk,  his  countenance 
changed  into  an  expression  of  intense  delight,  and  he 
•whispered — 

"  They  have  come,  Constance !  they  have  come.  Think 
of  me  as  at  rest  and  happy.  I  die  in  peace !" 

His  eye-lids  closed  naturally — there  was  no  longer  any 
convulsive  play  of  the  muscles,  and  as  an  infant  sinking 
into  slumber,  so  quietly  did  Theodore  Wilmer  sleep  the 
sleep  of  death. 

One  month  from  that  night  of  sorroxv,  the  darkest  one 
in  the  many  gloomy  seasons  of  Mrs.  Wilmer's  life,  might 
have  been  seen  this  child  of  many  afflictions,  with  her 
three  little  ones,  at  home  in  one  of  the  most  pleasant 
houses  in  the  vicinity  of  New  York.  There  was  some 
thing  sad  and  subdued  in  the  expression  of  her  pale  face, 
but  it  was  from  the  recollection  of  the  past.  Her  mother, 
who  ten  years  before  had  cast  her  off  as  unworthy,  now 
gazed  upon  her  with  a  look  of  the  intensest  affection ;  am, 
the  father,  who  had  sworn  never  to  call  her  his  child,  sat 
holding  her  thin  white  hand  in  his,  and  listening  to  her 
first  recital  of  all  she  had  passed  through  since  she  left 
the  home  of  her  childhood,  while  the  tears  fell  from  his 
eyes  in  large  drops,  upon  the  hand  that  lay  within  his 
own. 


THE    SISTERS. 


[THE  following  unadorned  narrative,  the  reminiscence  of  a  friend,  I  give 
as  if  related  by  him  from  whom  I  received  it.  He  was,  in  early  years, 
the  apprentice  of  a  tradesman,  in  whose  family  the  principal  incidents 
occurred.  The  picture  presented  is  one  of  every-day  life.] 

MR.  WILLIAMS,  to  whom,  when  a  boy,  I  was  appren 
ticed  to  learn  the  art  and  mystery  by  which  he  supported 
a  pretty  large  family,  was  not  rich,  although,  by  industry 
and  economy,  he  had  gathered  together  a  few  thousand 
dollars,  and  owned,  besides,  two  or  three  neat  little 
houses,  the  aggregate  annual  rent  of  which  was  some 
thing  like  six  hundred  dollars.  His  wife,  a  weak-minded 
woman,  however,  considered  him  Independent,  in  regard 
to  wealth,  and  valued  herself  accordingly.  Few  held 
their  heads  higher,  or  trode  the  pavement  with  a  statelier 
step  than  Mrs.  Williams. 

An  elder  sister,  greatly  her  superior  in  every  quality 
of  mind,  had  been  far  less  fortunate  in  her  marriage. 
She  was  the  wife  of  a  man,  who,  instead  of  increasing 
his  worldly  goods,  the  fruit  of  some  twenty  years'  pru 
dence  and  industry,  had  become  dissipated,  and  at  the 
time  now  referred  to,  was  sinking  rapidly,  and  bearing 
his  family,  of  course,  down  with  him.  All  energy  seem 
ed  lost,  and  though  his  family  was  steadily  increasing,  he 
grew  more  and  more  careless  every  day. 

He  spent  much  time  in  taverns,  and  wasted  there  a 
good  deal  of  money,  that  his  family  needed.  Mrs.  Haller, 
his  wife,  was,  as  has  been  said,  in  intelligence  and  feel 
ing,  much  the  superior  of  Mrs.  Williams,  but  appeared  to 
little  advantage  in  her  peculiar  situation.  She  was  the 
elder  sister,  by  four  or  five  years.  At  the  time  of  which 
1  am  now  writing,  Mrs.  Haller  had  five  children,  two  of 
them  grown  up,  and  the  rest  small.  Her  husband  had 
become  so  indolent  and  sottish,  that  all  her  exertions 
were  needed  to  keep  her  little  flock  from  suffering 

54  441 


442  THE     SISTERS 

with  cold  and  hunger.  No  woman  could  have  laboured 
more  untiringly  than  she  did,  but  it  was  labouring  against 
a  strong  current  that  bore  her  little  bark  slowly,  but  sure 
ly  backward.  Here,  then,  are  the  two  sisters ;  one,  the 
elder,  and  superior  in  all  the  endowments  of  head  and 
heart — the  other  with  few  claims  to  estimation  other  than 
those  afforded  by  a  competence  of  worldly  goods.  Let 
us  view  them  a  little  closer.  Perhaps  we  can  read  a  les 
son  in  their  mutual  conduct  that  will  not  soon  be  for 
gotten. 

In  earlier  years,  I  have  learned,  that  they  were  much 
attached  to  each  other.  In  their  father's  house,  they  knew 
no  cares,  and  when  they  married,  which  was  within  a 
few  years  of  each  other,  their  prospects  were  equal  for 
future  happiness.  While  this  equality  existed,  their  inter 
course  was  uninterrupted  and  affectionate.  But,  as  Mr. 
Haller  began  to  neglect  his  family,  the  cloud  that  settled 
upon  the  brow  of  his  poor  wife  was  not  pleasant  for  Mrs. 
Williams  to  look  upon.  Nor  were  the  complaints  that  a 
full  heart  too  often  forced  to  the  lips,  at  all  agreeable  to 
her  ears.  Naturally  proud  and  selfish,  these  two  feelings 
had  been  gaining  strength  with  the  progress  of  years, 
and  were  now  so  confirmed,  that  even  towards  an  only 
sister  in  changed  circumstances  they  remained  in  full 
activity. 

When  I  first  went  to  live  with  Mr.  Williams,  Mrs.  Hal 
ler  resided  in  a  neatly  furnished,  small  two-story  brick 
house.  Her  husband  had  not  then  shown  his  vagabond 
propensities  very  distinctly,  though  he  spent  in  his  family, 
and  otherwise,  all  that  he  earned  each  week,  thus  leaving 
nothing  for  a  rainy  day.  He  was  a  little  in  debt,  too,  but 
not  so  much  as  to  make  him  feel  uneasy.  Mrs.  Haller 
was  anxious  to  lay  up  something,  and  to  be  getting  ahead 
in  the  world,  and  was,  consequently,  always  troubled 
because  things  never  got  any  better.  She  came  to  our 
house  every  week,  and  Mr.  Williams  would  visit  her  once 
in  a  month  or  two.  Mrs.  Haller  often  talked  of  her  trou 
bles  to  her  sister,  who  used  then  to  sympathize  with  her, 
and  make  many  suggestions  of  means  to  render  things 
more  accordant  with  her  desires.  As  matters  gradually 
grew  worse  in  the  progress  of  time,  and  Mrs.  Haller 
began  to  make  rather  an  indifferent  appearance,  the  man- 


THE     SISTERS  443 

ner  of  her  sister  became  evidently  constrained  and  un- 
sympathizing.  She  began  to  look  upon  her  in  the  light 
of  a  "  poor  relation."  Her  children,  cousins  of  course 
to  Mrs.  Williams's,  were  not  treated  encouragingly  when 
they  came  to  our  house,  and  if  company  happened  to  be 
there,  they  were  kept  6ut  of  sight,  or  sent  home.  Mrs. 
Williams  rarely  visited  Mrs.  Haller — not  so  often  as  once 
in  six  months. 

Long  before  the  period  of  which  I  am  now  writing, 
Haller  had  become  drunken  and  very  lazy.  Their  com 
fortable  house  and  furniture  had  been  changed  for  poor 
rooms,  with  little  in  them,  except  what  was  barely  neces 
sary.  The  oldest  child,  a  son,  about  nineteen  years  of 
age,  on  to  whose  maturity  the  mother  had  often  looked 
with  a  lively  hope,  following  the  example  of  his  father, 
had  become  idle  and  dissipated;  spending  most  of  his 
time  in  low  taverns  and  gambling-shops.  Here  was  a 
keen  sorrow  which  no  heart  but  a  mother's  can  under 
stand.  Oh,  what  a  darkening  of  all  the  dreams  of  early 
years  !  When  a  warm-hearted  girl,  looking  into  the  plea 
sant  future  with  a  tremulous  joy,  she  stood  beside  her 
chosen  one  at  the  altar,  how  little  did  she  dream  of  the 
shadows  and  darkness  that  were  to  fall  upon  her  path ! 
And  alas  !  how  little  does  many  a  careless  girl,  who  gives 
nerself  away,  thoughtlessly,  to  a  young  man  of  unformed 
character,  dream  of  the  sorrow  too  deep  for  tears  that 
awaits  her.  Surely  this  were  anguish  enough,  —  and 
surely  it  called  for  the  sustaining  sympathy  of  friends. 
But  the  friend  of  her  early  years,  the  sister  in  whose 
arms,  in  the  days  of  innocent  childhood,  she  had  slept 
peacefully,  now  turned  from  her  coldly,  and'  even  repul 
sively. 

So  unnatural  and  revolting  seems  the  picture  I  am 
drawing,  even  in  its  dim  outlines,  that  I  turn  from  it  my 
self,  half-resolved  to  leave  it  unfinished.  But  many  rea 
sons,  stronger  than  feeling,  urge  me  to  complete  my  task 
with  the  imperfect  skill  I  possess,  and  I  take  the  pencil 
which  I  had  laid  down  in  shame  and  disgust,  and  proceed 
to  fill  up  more  distinctly. 

I  had  observed  for  some  time  the  growing  coolness  of 
Mrs.  Williams  towards  her  unfortunate  sister,  and  had 
noted  more  than  once  the  deep  dejection  of  Mrs.  Haller's 


444  THE     SISTERS. 

manner,  whenever  she  went  away  from  our  house.  She 
began  to  come  less  and  less  frequently,  and  her  children 
at  still  more  remote  intervals.  Things  became  desperate 
with  her  at  length,  and  she  came,  forced  by  necessity,  to 
seek  a  little  aid  and  comfort  in  her  sorrow  from  her  once 
kind  sister,  and  with  the  faint  hope*  that  some  relief  would 
be  offered.  I  was  sitting  in  the  neatly  furnished  break 
fast-room,  one  evening,  a  little  after  tea,  reading  a  book, 
when  Mrs.  Haller  came  in.  She  had  on  a  dark  calico 
dress,  faded,  but  clean,  a  rusty  shawl  that  had  once  been 
black,  and  a  bonnet  that  Mrs.  Williams's  kitchen-servant 
would  not  have  worn.  My  eye  instinctively  glanced  to 
the  face  of  Mrs.  Williams  as  she  entered ;  it  had  at  once 
contracted  into  a  cold  and  forbidding  expression.  She 
neither  rose  from  her  chair,  nor  asked  Mrs.  Haller  to  take 
one,  greeting  her  only  with  a  chilling  "  well,  Sally."  The 
latter  naturally  sought  a  chair,  and  waited  silently,  and 
surely  with  an  aching  heart,  for  a  kinder  manifestation 
of  sisterly  regard.  I  immediately  left  the  room ;  but 
learned  afterwards  enough  of  the  interview  to  make  it 
distinct  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader. 

The  sisters  sat  silent  for  some  moments,  the  one  vainly 
trying  to  keep  down  the  struggling  anguish  of  a  stricken 
heart,  and  the  other,  half-angry  at  the  intrusion,  endea 
vouring  to  fashion  a  form  of  greeting  that  should  convey 
her  real  impressions,  without  being  verbally  committed. 
At  length  the  latter  said,  half-kindly,  half-repulsively : — 

"  Why,  Sally,  what  has  brought  you  so  far  from  home, 
after  dark  T 

"  Nothing  very  particular.  Only  I  thought  I  would  like 
to  drop  in  a  little  while  and  see  how  you  all  did.  Be 
sides,  little  Thomas  is  sick,  and  I  wanted  to  get  a  few 
herbs  from  you,  as  you  always  keep  them." 

"  What  kind  of  herbs  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Only  a  few  sprigs  of  balm,  and  some  woodbitney." 

"  Kitty" — bawled  out  this  unfeeling  woman  to  the  ser 
vant  in  the  kitchen — "  go  up  into  the  garret  and  bring  me 
a  handful  of  balm  and  woodbitney  —  and  don't  stay  all 
night!" 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Kitty,  thinking  the  last  part  of  the 
order  most  requiring  a  reply. 

A  further  pause  of  a  few  minutes  ensued,  when  Mrs. 


THE     SISTERS.  445 

Haller,  after  almost  struggling  to  keep  silence,  at  length 
ventured  to  say,  sadly,  and  despondingly,  that  she  should 
have  to  move  again. 

"  And  what,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  Sally,  are  you 
going  to  move  again  for  ?  You  can't  be  suited  much  bet 
ter." 

"  Nor  much  worse,  either,  Mary.  But  John  has  paid 
no  rent,  and  we  can't  stay  any  longer.  The  landlord  has 
ordered  us  to  leave  by  next  Wednesday,  or  he  will  throw 
our  few  things  into  the  street." 

"  Well,  I  declare,  there  is  always  something  occurring 
with  you  to  worry  my  mind.  Why  do  you  constantly 
harass  me  with  your  troubles  ?  I  have  enough  at  home 
in  my  own  family  to  perplex  me,  without  being  made  to 
bear  your  burdens.  I  never  trouble  you  with  my  griev 
ances,  or  anybody  else,  and  do  not  think  it  kind  in  you 
to  make  me  feel  bad  every  time  you  come  here.  I  de 
clare,  I  grow  nervous  whenever  I  see  you !" 

Poor  Mrs.  Haller,  already  bending  beneath  her  burden, 
found  this  adding  a  weight  that  made  it  past  calm  endur 
ance,  and  she  burst  into  tears,  and  sobbed  aloud.  But 
not  the  slightest  impression  did  this  exhibition  of  sorrow 
make  upon  Mrs.  Williams.  She  even  reproached  her 
with  unbecoming  weakness. 

Although  her  sister  had  before  shown  indifference  and 
great  coolness,  yet  never  had  she  spoken  thus  unkindly. 
In  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Haller  regained  her  calmness, 
and  with  it  came  back  some  of  her  former  pride  of  feel 
ing.  For  a  moment  she  sat  with  her  eyes  cast  upon  the 
floor,  endeavouring  to  keep  down  her  struggling  emo 
tions;  in  the  next  she  rose  up,  and  looking  her  sister 
fixedly  in  the  face,  read  her  this  impressive  lesson. 

"  Mary,  I  could  not  have  dreamed  of  such  harshness 
from  you !  I  have  thought  you  cold  and  indifferent,  long ; 
but  I  tried  hard  to  believe  that  you  were  not  unkind.  I 
have  never  come  to  see  you  in  the  last  three  years,  that  I 
did  not  go  away  sad  in  spirit.  There  was  something  in 
your  manner  that  seemed  to  say  that  you  thought  my 
presence  irksome,  and  as  you  were  the  only  friend  I  had 
to  speak  to  about  my  wearying  cares  and  anxieties,  it 
grieved  me  more  than  I  can  tell  to  think  that  that  only 
friend  was  growing  cold  —  and  that  friend  a  sister!  As 


446  THE     SISTERS. 

things  have  become  worse  with  me,  your  manner  has 
grown  colder,  and  now  you  have  spoken  out  distinctly, 
and  destroyed  the  little  resting  place  I  sometimes  sought 
when  wearied  to  faintness.  Mary,  may  God  who  has 
afflicted  me,  grant  you  a  happier  lot  in  the  future !  May 
you  never  know  the  anguish  of  one  who  sees  a  once 
idolized  husband  become  a  brute  —  her  children  growing 
up  worthless  under  the  dreadful  example  of  their  father, 
and  all  often  wanting  food  to  sustain  nature !  You  have 
everything  you  desire.  I  have  not  the  necessaries  of  life. 
We  were  born  of  the  same  mother,  and  nursed  at  the 
same  bosom.  We  played  together  in  childhood, — once  I 
saved  your  life.  And  now,  because  our  ways  are  dif 
ferent;  yours  even  and  flowery,  and  mine  rough  and 
thorny,  you  turn  from  me,  as  from  an  importunate  beg 
gar.  Mary,  we  shall  meet  our  father  and  mother  at  the 
bar  of  God !" 

Thus  saying,  Mrs.  Haller  turned  slowly  away,  and 
left  the  house  before  her  sister,  who  was  startled  at  this 
unexpected  appeal,  could -sufficiently  collect  her  senses  to 
reply.  Her  real  errand,  or,  rather,  her  principal  errand 
to  the  house  of  Mrs.  Williams,  had  been  to  ask  for  some 
food  for  her  children.  It  was  many  weeks  since  her  hus 
band  had  contributed  a  single  dollar  towards  the  daily 
family  expenses,  and  all  the  burden  of  their  support  de 
volved  upon  the  wife  and  mother.  Night  and  day,  in 
pain,  and  exhaustion  of  body  and  mind,  had  she  toiled  to 
get  food  for  those  who  looked  up  to  her,  but  all  her  efforts 
were  inadequate.  Like  thousands  of  others,  when  a  girl, 
she  had  acquired  an  education  that  was  more  ornamental 
than  useful.  The  consequence  was,  that  she  had  no  ready 
means  of  earning  money.  The  wants  of  a  family  of 
children,  had,  it  is  true,  given  her  some  skill  with  her 
needle,  but  not  of  a  kind  that  would  enable  her  to  earn 
much  by  sewing. 

She  did,  however,  at  first  try  what  she  could  do  by 
working  for  the  cheap  clothing-stores.  But  twelve-and- 
a-half  cents  a  pair  for  pantaloons,  ten  cents  for  vests,  and 
eight  cents  for  shirts,  yielded  so  little,  that  she  was  driven 
to  something  else.  That  something  else  was  the  wash- 
tub  ;  over  which,  and  the  ironing-table,  she  toiled  early 
and  late,  often  ready  to  sink  to  the  floor  from  exhaustioa 


THE     SISTERS.  447 

Of  this,  she  said  nothing  to  Mrs.  Williams,  who  would 
have  been  terribly  mortified  at  the  idea  of  her  sister, 
taking  in  washing  for  a  support.  The  labour  of  one  pair 
of  hands  in  the  wash-tub,  was,  however,  unequal  to  the 
task  of  providing  food  for  seven  mouths,  even  of  a  very 
poor  quality.  Consequently,  Mrs.  Haller  found  the  wants 
of  her  family  pressing,  every  day,  harder  and  harder  upon 
the  slender  means  by  which  they  were  supplied.  Often, 
when  she  carried  home  her  work,  there  was  no  food  in 
the  house,  and  often  did  she  work  half  the  night,  so  as  to 
be  able  to  take  her  clothes  home  early  on  the  next  day, 
and  get  the  money  she  had  earned  to  meet  that  day's 
wants. 

Among  those  for  whom  she  washed  and  ironed,  was  a 
•woman  in  good  circumstances,  who  never  paid  her  any 
thing  until  she  asked  for  it,  and  then  the  money  came  with 
an  air  of  reluctance.  Of  course,  sne  applied  to  her  for 
her  hard  earnings,  only  when  pressed  by  necessity.  On 
the  morning  before  the  interview  with  her  sister,  just 
detailed,  Mrs.  Haller  found  herself  nearly  out  of  every 
thing,  and  with  not  a  cent  in  the  world.  The  woman 
just  alluded  to,  owed  her  two  dollars,  and  she  had  nearly 
completed  another  week's  washing  for  her,  which  would 
make  the  amount  due  her  two  dollars  and  a  half.  At 
dinner-time,  every  mouthful  of  food,  and  that  a  scanty 
portion,  was  consumed,  and  there  would  be  nothing  for 
supper,  or  breakfast,  on  the  next  morning,  unless  Mrs. 
Hamil  should  pay  her.  It  was  nearly  night  when  she 
finished  ironing  the  last  piece.  Hurriedly  putting  on  her 
things,  after  sending  two  of  her  children  with  the  clothes 
in  a  basket,  she  joined  them  as  they  were  about  entering 
the  dwelling  of  Mrs.  Hamil. 

Her  heart  beat,  audibly  to  her  own  ear,  as  she  went  in, 
and  asked  to  see  the  woman  for  whom  she  had  been 
labouring.  Although,  heretofore,  whenever  she  had  ask 
ed  for  her  money,  she  had  received  it,  sometimes  with 
reluctance,  it  is  true,  yet  her  extremity  being  now  so 
great,  she  trembled  lest,  from  some  cause,  she  should  not 
be  able  to  get  the  pittance  due  her. 

For  a  few  moments  she  sat  in  the  kitchen  hesitating  to 
ask  for  Mrs.  Hamil,  after  the  clothes  had  been  given  to 


448  THE     SISTERS. 

the  servant.  When  she  did  do  so,  she  was  told  thai  she 
was  engaged  and  could  not  be  seen. 

"  Ask  her,  then,  for  me,  if  you  please,"  she  said,  to  send 
me  a  dollar.  I  want  it  very  much." 

The  servant  went  up  and  delivered  her  message,  and 
in  a  few  moments  came  back  with  the  answer,  that  Mrs. 
Hamil  was  engaged,  and  could  not  attend  to  such  mat 
ters  ; — that  she  could  step  in  on  the  next  day,  and  get  her 
money. 

The  words  fell  coldly  upon  her  feelings,  and  oppressed 
her  with  a  faint  sickness.  Then  she  got  up  slowly  from 
her  chair,  hesitated  a  moment,  took  one  or  two  steps 
towards  the  door,  and  then  pausing,  said  to  the  servant, 

"  Go  up  and  tell  Mrs.  Hamil,  that  I  am  sorry  to  trouble 
her,  but  that  I  want  the  money  very  much,  and  that  if  she 
will  send  it  down  to  me,  she  will  confer  a  very  great 
favour,  indeed." 

"  I  had  rather  not,"  the  servant  replied.  "  She  didn't 
appear  .pleased  at  my  going  up  the  first  time.  And  I  am 
sure  she  will  be  less  pleased  if  I  go  again." 

"  But  you  do  not  know  how  much  I  am  in  want  of  this 
money,  Jane — "  and  the  poor  woman's  voice  quivered. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Haller,  I  will  try  again,"  the  kind-hearted 
girl  said,  "  but  I  can't  promise  to  be  successful.  Mrs. 
Hamil  is  very  queer  sometimes." 

In  a  few  minutes  Jane  returned  with  a  positive  refusal. 
Mrs.  Hamil  couldn't  and  wouldn't  be  troubled  in  that 
way. 

In  a  state  of  half-conscious,  dreamy  wretchedness,  did 
Mrs.  Haller  turn  her  steps  slowly  homewards.  The 
shadows  of  evening  were  falling  thickly  around,  adding 
a  deeper  gloom  to  her  feelings. 

"  O,  mother !  I  Jm  glad  you  've  come,  /'m  so  hungry  !" 
cried  one  of  her  little  ones,  springing  to  her  side  as  she 
entered.  "  Won't  we  have  supper  soon,  now  ?" 

This  was  too  much  for  her,  and  she  sank  exhausted 
and  almost  fainting  into  a  chair.  Tears  soon  brought 
temporary  relief  to  an  overburdened  heart.  Then  she 
soothed  her  hungry  little  ones  as  well  as  she  could,  pro 
mising  them  a  good  supper  before  they  went  to  bed. 

"  But  why  can't  we  have  it  now  ?"  urged  one,  more 
impatient,  or  more  hungry,  than  the  rest. 


THE     SISTERS.  449 

"  Because  mother  hasn't  got  any  good  bread  for  little 
Henry  —  "  she  replied  —  "  But  she  will  have  some  soon. 
So  all  be  good  children,  and  wait  until  mother  goes  out 
and  gets  some  bread  and  meat,  and  then  we  will  all  have 
a  nice  supper." 

After  quieting  the  importunities  of  her  children  in  this 
way,  and  soothing  little  Thomas,  who  was  sick  and  fret 
ful,  Mrs.  Haller  again  left  them,  and  bent  her  steps,  with 
a  reluctant  spirit,  towards  the  comfortable  dwelling  of  her 
sister,  nearly  a  mile  away  from  where  she  lived.  The 
interview  with  that  sister  has  already  been  given. 

When  she  turned  away,  as  has  been  seen,  empty-hand 
ed,  from  the  door  of  that  sister,  it  was  with  feelings  that 
few  can  imagine.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  were  for 
saken  both  of  earth  and  heaven.  How  she  got  home, 
she  hardly  knew,  but  when  she  entered  that  cheerless 
place  she  found  her  poor  sick  child,  for  whom  she  had  no 
money  to  buy  medicine,  burning  with  fever,  and  crying 
bitterly.  Her  brutal  husband  was  snoring  on  the  bed  — 
the  smaller  children  quarrelling  among  themselves,  and 
her  oldest  boy,  half-intoxicated,  leaning  over  the  back  of 
a  chair,  and  swinging  his  body  backward  and  forward  in 
the  idiotcy  of  drunkenness.  As  she  entered,  the  children 
crowded  round  her,  asking  fretfully  for  their  suppers ;  but 
nothing  had  she  to  give  them,  for  she  had  come  away 
empty-handed  and  repulsed  from  the  door  of  her  affluent 
sister,  to  whose  dwelling  she  had  gone  solely  to  ask  for 
some  food  for  her  children  !  In  the  momentary  energy  of 
despair  she  roused  her  husband  rudely  from  the  bed,  and 
bade  him,  in  an  excited  tone,  to  go  and  get  some  bread 
for  the  children.  The  brute,  angered  by  her  words  and 
manner,  struck  her  a  blow  upon  the  head,  which  brought 
her  senseless  to  the  floor. 

An  hour  at  least  passed  before  she  recovered  her  sen 
ses  ;  when  she  opened  her  eyes,  she  found  herself  on  a 
bed,  her  sister  sitting  by  her  side,  weeping,  and  Mr.  Wil 
liams  standing  over  her.  Her  husband  was  not  there, 
some  of  the  children  were  crying  about  the  room,  and 
others  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  floor.  The  oldest  boy  was 
sitting  in  the  position  before-mentioned. 

Brief  explanations  were  made,  and  Mrs.  Williams  offer 
ed  a  faint  apology  for  her  harsh  treatment.  The  appea* 
55 


450  THE     SISTERS. 

of  her  sister  had  touched  her  feelings,  and  she  had  pro 
posed  to  Mr.  Williams  to  go  over  and  see  her.  On  enter 
ing  her  dwelling  they  found  her  senseless  on  the  floor, 
and  the  children  screaming  around  her.  The  husband 
was  not  there. 

As  soon  as  the  mother's  voice  was  heard  by  the  small- 
est  child,  a  little  girl,  she  climbed  up  the  side  of  the  bed, 
and  simply,  and  earnestly,  in  lisping  tones,  asked  for  a 
•'  piece  of  bread."  The  poor  woman  burst  into  tears, 
and  turned  her  head  away  from  her  child.  Mrs.  Wil 
liams  went  to  the  closet,  saying  —  "Come,  Emma,  I  will 
get  you  some  bread."  The  little  thing  was  at  her  side  in 
a  moment.  But  the  search  there  was  in  vain. 

"  Where  is  the  bread,  Sally  ?"  she  asked. 

"  There  is  none  in  the  house,"  faintly  murmured  the 
almost  broken-hearted  mother. 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Mr.  Williams  —  "you  are  not 
without  food,  surely  ?" 

"  We  have  tasted  nothing  to-day,"  was  the  startling 
reply. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Haller?" 

"  I  know  not — he  left  the  house  a  short  time  ago*" 

"  He  ran  out  when  he  struck  you,  mother,"  spoke  up 
the  little  child  who  had  asked  for  the  bread. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Williams  looked  at  each  other  for  some 
moments  in  silence. 

"  Get  a  basket  and  come  with  me,  John,"  said  Mr.  Wil 
liams,  to  the  oldest  boy,  who  was  gazing  on  with  indiffer 
ence  or  stupidity. 

Mechanically  he  took  a  basket  and  followed  his  uncle. 
They  soon  returned  with  bread,  dried  meat,  ham,  &c., 
and  in  a  brief  space,  a  comfortable  meal  was  prepared 
for  the  starving  family. 

Conscience  felt  about  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Williams  that 
nignt,  with  touches  of  pain,  and  she  repented  of  her  cruel 
neglect,  and  unkind  treatment  of  her  sister.  She  dream 
ed  not  of  the  extent  of  her  destitution  and  misery  —  sim 
ply,  because  she  had  refused  to  make  herself  acquainted 
with  her  real  condition.  Now  that  the  sad  reality  had 
been  forced  upon  her  almost  unwilling  eyes,  a  few  re 
turning  impulses  of  nature  demanded  relief  for  her  suf 
fering  sister. 


THE     SISTERS.  451 

Mr.  Williams,  whose  benevolent  feelings  were  easily 
excited,  was  shocked  at  the  scene  before  him,  and  blamed 
himself  severely  for  not  having  earlier  become  acquaint 
ed  with  Mrs.  Mailer's  condition.  He  immediately  set 
about  devising  means  of  relief.  Haller  had  become  so 
worthless  that  he  despaired  of  making  him  do  anything 
for  his  family.  He  therefore  invited  his  sister-in-law  to 
come  home  to  our  house,  and  bring  her  two  youngest 
girls  with  her.  The  rest  were  provided  with  places. 
The  family  had  grown  pretty  large,  and  she  could  assist 
in  sewing,  &c.,  and  thus  render  a  service,  and  live  com 
fortably.  Mrs.  Williams  seconded  the  proposition,  though 
not  with  much  cordiality ;  she  could  not,  however,  make 
any  objections. 

We  look  at  the  sisters  now  in  a  different  relation.  The 
superior  in  dependence  on  the  inferior.  Can  any  for  a 
moment  question  the  result  ? 

It  was  not  without  a  struggle  that  poor  Mrs.  Haller 
consented  to  disband  her  little  family  —  and  virtually  to 
divorce  herself  from  her  husband.  No  matter  how  cruel 
the  latter  had  been,  nor  how  deplorable  the  condition  of 
the  former,  her  heart  still  retained  its  household  affections, 
and  would  not  consent  willingly  to  have  her  little  flock 
scattered  —  perhaps  for  ever.  But  stern  necessity  knows 
no  law.  In  due  time,  with  little  Emma,  and  Emily,  Mrs. 
Haller  was  assigned  a  comfortable  room  over  the  kitchen, 
and  became  a  member  of  our  family.  All  of  us  in  the 
shop  felt  for  her  a  warm  interest,  but  hesitated  not  to  ex 
press  among  ourselves  a  regret  that  she  could  do  no  better 
than  to  trust  herself  and  little  ones  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  a  sister,  whom  we  knew  too  well  to  respect. 

At  first,  Mrs.  Haller  was  employed  in  needle-work,  but 
as  she  was  neither  a  very  fast  nor  neat  sewer,  her  sister 
soon  found  it  better  policy  to  let  her  do  the  chamber- 
work,  and  sometimes  assist  in  cooking.  For  about  three 
months,  her  situation  was  comfortable,  except  that  her 
children  were  required  to  act  "just  so,"  and  were  driven 
about  and  scolded  if  they  ventured  to  amuse  themselves 
in  the  yard,  or  anywhere  in  the  sight  or  hearing  of  their 
aunt.  Her  own  children  were  indulged  in  almost  every 
thing,  but  her  little  nieces  were  required  to  be  as  staid 
and  circumspect  as  grown-up  women.  After  about  six 


452  THE     SISTERS. 

months  had  elapsed,  Mrs.  Williams  began  to  find  faul 
with  her  sister  for  various  trifles,  and  to  be  petulant  and 
unkind  in  manner  towards  her.  This  thing  was  not  done 
right,  and  the  other  thing  was  neglected.  If  she  sat  down 
for  half  an  hour  to  sew  for  herself  or  children,  something 
would  be  said  or  hinted  to  wound  her,  and  make  her  feel 
that  she  was  viewed  by  her  sister  in  no  other  light  than 
that  of  a  hired  servant. 

Something  occurring  to  make  the  kitchen-servant  leave 
her  place,  Mrs.  Haller  cooked  and  attended  in  her  situa 
tion  until  another  could  be  obtained.  There  was,  how 
ever,  no  effort  made  to  procure  another ;  week  after  week 
passed  away,  and  still  all  the  menial  employments  of  the 
house  and  the  hard  duties  of  the  kitchen  fell  upon  Mrs. 
Haller.  From  her  place  at  the  first  table,  where  she  sat 
for  a  short  time  after  she  came  into  the  house,  she  was 
assigned  one  with  us.  To  all  these  changes  she  was  not 
indifferent.  She  felt  them  keenly.  But  what  could  she 
do  ?  Unfortunately  for  her,  she  had  been  so  raised  (as 
too  many  of  our  poor,  proud,  fashionable  girls  are  now 
raised)  as  to  be  almost  helpless  when  thrown  upon  her 
own  resources.  She  was  industrious,  and  saving;  but 
understood  nothing  about  getting  a  living.  Therefore, 
she  felt  that  endurance  was  her  only  present  course.  It 
was  grievous  to  the  heart  to  be  trampled  upon  by  a  sister 
whose  condition  was  above  her's ;  but  as  that  sister  had 
offered  her  an  assylum,  when  in  the  utmost  destitution, 
she  resolved  to  bear  patiently  the  burden  she  imposed 
upon  her. 

It  was  now  tacitly  understood  between  the  sisters  that 
Sally  was  to  be  kitchen-servant  to  the  other.  And  as  a 
servant  she  was  treated.  When  company  were  at  the 
house,  she  was  not  to  know  them  or  sit  down  in  the  par 
lour  with  them.  Her  little  ones  were  required  to  keep 
themselves  out  of  the  family  sitting-room,  and  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams's  children  taught,  not  by  words,  but  by  actions,  to 
look  upon  them  as  inferiors.  From  confinement,  and 
being  constantly  checked  in  the  outburst  of  their  feelings, 
they  soon  began  to  look  much  worse  than  they  did  when 
first  taken  from  their  comfortless  abode.  The  youngest, 
a  quiet  child,  might  usually  be  found  sitting  on  a  little 
stool  by  her  mother  in  the  kitchen,  playing  with  some 


THE     SISTERS.  453 

trifling  toy ;  but  the  other  was  a  wild  little  witch,  who 
was  determined  to  obey  no  arbitrary  laws  of  her  aunt's 
enacting.  There  was  no  part  of  the  house  that  she  did 
not  consider  neutral  ground.  Now  she  would  be  playing 
with  her  little  cousins  in  the  breakfast-room,  or  in  some 
of  the  chambers,  and  now  clambering  over  the  shop-board 
among  the  boys  and  journeymen.  All  liked  her  but  Mrs. 
Williams,  and  to  her  she  was  a  thorn  in  the  flesh,  because 
she  set  at  defiance  all  her  restrictions.  This  was  a  cause 
of  much  trouble  to  Mrs.  Haller,  who  saw  that  the  final 
result  would  be  a  separation  from  one  or  both  of  her  chil 
dren.  The  only  reason  that  weighed  with  her  and  caused 
her  to  remain  in  her  unpleasant  and  degraded  situation, 
was  the  ardent  desire  she  felt  to  keep  her  two  youngest 
children  with  her.  She  could  not  trust  them  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  strangers.  Deep  distress  and  abject  poverty 
had  not  blunted  a  single  maternal  feeling,  and  her  heart 
yearned  for  her  babes  with  an  increased  anxiety  and  ten 
derness  as  the  chances  every  day  appeared  less  in  favour 
of  her  retaining  them  with  her.  One  had  nearly  grown 
up,  and  was  a  sorrow  and  an  anguish  to  her  heart.  Two 
others,  quite  young,  were  bound  out,  and  but  one  of  them 
had  found  a  kind  guardian.  And  now,  one  of  the  two 
that  remained  she  feared  would  have  to  be  removed  from 
her. 

One  day,  her  sister  called  her  into  the  sitting-room, 
where  she  found  a  lady  of  no  very  prepossessing  appear 
ance. 

"  Sally,"  said  she,  "  this  is  Mrs.  Tompkins.  She  has 
seen  Emily,  and  would  like  to  have  her  very  much.  You, 
of  course,  have  no  objections  to  getting  so  good  a  plac^ 
for  Emily.  How  soon  can  you  get  her  ready  to  go  ? 
Mrs.  Tompkins  would  like  to  have  her  by  the  first  of  next 
week." 

Thus,  without  a  moment's  warning,  the  oreaded  blow 
fell  upon  her.  She  murmured  a  faint  assent,  named  an 
early  day,  and  retired.  She  could  not  resist  the  will  of 
her  sister,  for  she  was  a  dependant. 

In  the  disposition  of  other  people's  children,  we  can  be 
governed  by  what  we  call  rational  considerations;  but 
when  called  upon  to  part  with  our  own  helpless  offspring, 
how  differently  do  we  estimate  circumstances!  Every 


THE     SISTERS. 

day  we  hear  some  one  saying,  "  Why  don't  she  put  out 
her  children  ?" —  and,  "  Why  don't  she  put  out  her  chil 
dren  ?  They  will  be  much  better  off."  And  perhaps  these 
children  are  but  eight,  nine,  and  ten  years  old.  Mother ! 
father !  whoever  you  may  be,  imagine  your  own  children, 
of  that  tender  age,  among  strangers  as  servants  (for  that 
is  the  capacity  of  children  who  are  thus  put  out)  required 
to  be,  in  all  respects,  as  prudent,  as  industrious,  as  re 
nouncing  of  little  recreations  and  pleasures  as  men  and 
\vomen,  and  subject  to  severe  punishments  for  all  childish 
faults  and  weaknesses,  such  as  you  would  have  borne 
xvith  and  gently  corrected.  Don't  draw  parallels  between 
your  own  and  poor  people's  children,  as  if  they  were  to 
be  less  regarded  than  yours.  Even  as  your  heart  yearns 
over  and  loves  with  unspeakable  tenderness  your  offspring, 
does  the  mother,  no  matter  how  poor  her  condition,  yearn 
over  and  love  her  children — and  when  they  are  removed 
from  under  her  protecting  wing,  she  feels  as  keen  a  sor 
row  as  would  rend  your  heart,  were  the  children  of  your 
tenderest  care  and  fondest  love,  taken  from  you  and  placed 
among  strangers. 

In  due  time,  Emily  was  put  out  to  Mrs.  Tompkins,  a 
woman  who  had  wonderful  fine  notions  about  rearing  up 
children  so  as  to  make  men  and  women  of  them,  (than 
her  own,  there  were  not  a  more  graceless  set  in  the  whole 
city.)  She  had  never  been  able  to  carry  into  full  prac 
tice  her  admirable  theories  in  regard  to  the  education  of 
children  among  her  own  hopefuls ;  because — first :  Johnny 
was  a  very  delicate  boy,  and  to  have  governed  him  by 
strict  rules,  would  have  been  to  have  ruined  his  constitu 
tion.  She  had  never  dared  to  break  him  of  screaming  by 
conquering  him,  in  a  single  instance,  because  the  rupture 
of  a  blood-vessel  would  doubtless  have  been  the  conse 
quence,  or  a  fit  in  which  he  might  have  died.  Once 
indeed  she  did  try  to  force  him  to  give  up  his  will,  but  he 
grew  black  in  the  face  from  passion,  and  she  had  hard 
work  to  recover  him  —  after  this  he  was  humoured  in 
everything.  And  Tommy  was  a  high-spirited  and  gener 
ous  fellow,  and  it  would  have  been  a  pity  to  warp  his  fine 
disposition.  Years  of  discretion  would  make  him  a 
splendid  specimen  of  perfect  manhood.  Angelina,  (a  for 
ward,  pert  little  minx,)  was,  from  her  birth,  so  gentle,  so 


THE     SISTERS.  455 

amiable,  so  affectionate,  that  no  government  was  neces 
sary — and  Victorine  was  so  naturally  high-tempered,  that 
her  mother  guarded  against  the  developement  of  anger  by 
never  allowing  her  to  be  crossed  in  anything. 

In  Emily,  Mrs.  Tompkins  supposed  she  had  found  a 
fine  subject  on  which  to  demonstrate  her  theories.  A 
wilful,  spoiled  child,  she  was,  eleven  years  of  age,  and 
needed  curbing,  and  in  a  few  days  Mrs.  Tompkins  found 
it  necessary  to  exercise  her  prerogative.  Emily  was,  of 
course,  put  right  to  work,  so  soon  as  she  came  into  the 
house.  Her  first  employment  was  to  sweep  up  the  break 
fast-room,  after  the  maid  had  removed  the  breakfast-things 
and  placed  back  the  table.  She  had  never  handled  a 
broom,  and  was,  of  course,  very  awkward.  With  this 
awkwardness,  Mrs.  Tompkins  had  no  patience,  and  once 
or  twice  took  the  broom  from  her  hand,  and  directed  her 
how  to  hold  and  use  it,  in  a  high  tone,  and  half-angry 
manner.  In  due  course  she  got  through  this  duty ;  and 
then  was  directed  to  rock  the  cradle,  while  Mrs.  Tomp 
kins  went  through  her  chamber  and  made  herself  look  a 
little  tidy.  Sitting  still  a  whole  hour  was  a  terrible  trial 
to  Emily's  patience,  but  she  made  out  to  stick  at  her  post 
until  Mrs.  Tompkins  re-appeared.  She  was  then  sent 
into  the  cellar  to  bring  up  three  or  four  armfuls  of  wood, 
and  immediately  after  to  the  grocer's  for  a  pound  of  soap, 
then  to  the  milliner's  with  a  band-box.  When  she  return 
ed,  it  was  about  eleven  o'clock,  and  she  was  set  to  help 
one  of  the  servants  wash  the  windows,  which  were  taken 
out  of  the  frames  and  washed  in  the  yard.  This  occupi 
ed  until  twelve.  Then  she  must  rock  the  cradle  again, 
which  she  did  until  one  o'clock,  when  it  waked,  and  she 
had  to  sit  on  a  little  chair  and  hold  it,  while  the  family 
dined.  Her  own  dinner  was  afterwards  put  on  a  plate, 
and  she  made  to  stand  by  the  kitchen-table  and  eat  it. 
All  the  afternoon  was  taken  up  in  some  employment  or 
other,  and  as  soon  as  supper  was  over  (which  she  eat,  as 
before,  standing  at  the  kitchen-table)  she  was  sent  to  bed 
— and  glad  she  was  to  get  there,  for  she  was  so  tired  she 
could  hardly  stand  up. 

The  next  day  passed  in  the  same  unrelaxing  round  of 
duties,  and  the  third  commenced  in  a  similar  way.  The 
little  thing  had  by  this  time  become  almost  sick  from  such 


456  THE     SISTERS 

constant  confinement  and  extra  labour  for  one  of  her 
strength.  She  was  set,  on  this  day,  to  scrub  down  a  pair 
of  back  stairs,  a  task  to  which  she  was  unequal.  Before 
she  had  got  down  to  the  third  step,  she  accidentally  upset 
the  basin  and  flooded  the  whole  stair-case  —  dashing  the 
dirty-water  in  the  face  of  Mrs.  Tompkins  who  was  just 
coming  up.  She  was  a  good  deal  frightened,  for  Mrs. 
Tompkins  had  shown  so  much  anger  towards  her  on  dif 
ferent  occasions  in  the  last  three  days,  and  had  once 
threatened  to  correct  her,  that  she  feared  punishment 
would  follow  the  accident.  A  slight  box  on  the  ear  was 
indeed  administered.  Trembling  from  head  to  fool  with 
fear,  and  weakness,  for  the  child  was  by  no  means  well, 
she  brought  up  another  basin  of  water,  and  commenced 
scouring  the  steps  again.  By  some  strange  fatality,  the 
basin  was  again  upset,  and  unfortunately  fell  in  the  face 
of  Mrs.  Tompkins  again.  A  cruel  chastisement  followed, 
with  a  set  of  leather  thongs,  upon  the  poor  child's  bare 
back  and  shoulders. 

That  night  the  child  came  home  to  her  mother,  and 
gave  a  history  of  her  treatment.  Her  lacerated  back 
was  sufficient  evidence  how  cruelly  she  had  been  pun 
ished.  The  little  thing  was  in  a  high  fever,  and  moaned 
and  talked  in  her  sleep  all  night. 

Finding  that  the  child  was  not  sent  back  in  the  morn 
ing,  Mrs.  Williams  wished  to  know  the  reason,  and  was 
told  the  real  condition  of  Emily. 

"She's  a  bad  child,  Sally,  and  has  no  doubt  deserved 
a  whipping !  You  have  spoiled  your  older  children  by 
mistaken  kindness,  and  will  spoil  the  rest.  But  I  can  tell 
you  very  distinctly  that  I  am  not  going  to  be  a  party  in 
this  matter,  and  will  not  consent  that  Emily  stay  here 
any  longer.  So,  if  you  don't  send  her  back  to  Mrs. 
Tompkins,  you  may  get  her  a  place  somewhere  else,  foi 
after  this  week  she  shall  not  stay  here.  She  has  almost 
ruined  my  Clara,  now!" 

To  this,  poor  Mrs.  Haller  made  no  reply.  Her  home 
at  our  house  had  only  been  endured  because  there  she 
thought  she  could  keep  her  babes  with  her.  She  left  the 
presence  of  her  unfeeling  sister,  and  began  to  study  how 
she  could  manage  to  support  herself  and  two  children  by 
her  own  unaided  exertions.  Many  plans  were  suggested 


THE     SISTERS.  457 

to  her  mind,  but  none  seemed  to  promise  success.  At 
length  she  resolved  to  rent  a  small  room,  and  put  into  it 
a  bed,  a  table,  and  a  few  chairs,  with  some  other  neces 
sary  articles  which  she  still  had,  and  then  buy  some  kind 
of  vegetables  with  about  five  dollars  that  were  due  her, 
and  go  to  market  as  a  huckster !  Let  not  the  sentimental 
and  romantic  turn  away  in  disgust.  When  humanity  is 
reduced  to  a  last  resource,  be  it  what  it  may,  the  heart 
endures  pains,  and  doubts,  and  fears  of  a  like  character, 
•whether  the  resource  be  that  offered  to  a  noble  lady,  or 
a  lonely  widow. 

Before  Saturday  night,  Mrs.  Haller  had  found  a  room 
near  the  market  that  just  suited  her,  which  she  rented  at 
two  dollars  a  month  with  the  use  of  the  cellar.  When 
she  made  known  to  Mrs.  Williams  her  intention  of  leav 
ing  her  house,  and  told  her  how  she  intended  to  make  a 
living,  the  latter  was  almost  speechless  with  surprise. 

'Surely,  Sally,"  said  she,  "you  cannot  be  in  earnest?" 

'  Indeed  I  am  in  earnest,  though  1" 

1  But  consider  the  disgrace  it  will  be  to  your  family." 

'Nothing  is  disgraceful  that  is  honest." 

'  I  never  will  consent  to  your  being  a  huckster : — Sally ! 
if  you  do  so  disgrace  yourself  as  to  stand  in  the  market 
and  sell  potatoes  and  cabbages,  I  will  disown  you  !  You 
have  a  comfortable  home  here,  and  where  then  is  the  use 
of  your  exposing  yourself  in  the  market-house  1" 

"  You  will  not  let  Emily  stay  here  with  me,  and  I  can 
not  part  with  my  poor  babes."  A  flood  of  tears  burst 
forth,  even  though  she  struggled  hard  to  conceal  them. 

"  You  are  very  weak  and  foolish,  Sally.  Emily  will  be 
much  better  off,  away  from  you.  She  is  growing  up  a 
spoiled  child,  and  needs  other  care  than  yours.  You  are 
too  indulgent." 

"  In  any  case,  Mary,  I  am  determined  to  keep  these 
children  with  me.  I  know  that  it  is  riot  pleasant  for  you 
to  have  them  here,  and  I  don't  want  to  have  them  in  your 
way.  The  best  thing  I  can  do  is  that  which  I  have 
determined  on." 

"  If  you  will  go,  why  not  take  in  sewing,  or  washing 
and  ironing?" 

"  Simply,  because  I  cannot  make  a  living  with  my 
needle,  and  my  health  will  not  permit  me  to  stand  over  the 

5o 


458  THE     SISTERS. 

wash-tub  from  morning  till  night.  There  is  no  resource 
left  me  but  the  market-house,  reluctantly  as  I  go  there." 

"  Well,  Sally,  you  can  do  as  you  please.  But  let  me 
tell  you,  that  if  you  do  turn  huckster,  I  will  never  own 
you  as  my  sister  again." 

"  Any  such  foolish  and  rash  resolution  on  your  part, 
I  should  regret  very  much ;  for,  unkindly  and  unfeelingly 
as  you  have  acted  towards  me,  I  have  no  wish  to  dissolve 
the* tie  of  nature." 

"  It  shall  be  dissolved,  you  may  rely  upon  it,  if  you  do 
so  disgraceful  a  thing." 

On  Saturday  she  got  what  was  due  to  her,  and  on 
Monday  removed  to  her  new  abode.  Of  all  this,  Mr. 
Williams  had  not  the  slightest  knowledge.  After  getting 
her  room  fixed  up,  she  went  down  to  the  wharf  and 
bought  a  few  bushels  of  potatoes,  and  some  apples :  with 
these  she  went  to  the  market.  Her  feelings  in  thus  ex 
posing  herself,  can  only  be  imagined  by  such  as  have  had 
to  resort  to  a  similar  method  of  obtaining  a  livelihood, 
when  they  first  appeared  in  the  market-house.  She  had 
not  been  long  at  her  stand,  when  Mr.  Williams,  who  gen 
erally  went  to  market,  came  unexpectedly  upon  her. 

"  Why,  Sally,  what  in  the  world  are  you  doing  here  ?" 
was  his  surprised  salutation. 

"  Why,  didn't  you  know  that  I  had  left  your  house  for 
the  market-house?" 

"  No !  How  should  I  know  ?  You  never  told  me  that 
you  were  going." 

"  But  surely  sister  did  1" 

"  Indeed  she  did  not." 

"  She  knew  last  week  that  I  was  going,  and  that  I  had 
determined  to  make  a  living  for  myself  and  children  in 
this  way." 

•'  I  am  sorry  you  left  our  house,  Sally !  You  should  have 
had  a  home  there  as  long  as  I  lived.  You  must  not  stay 
here,  anyhow.  Something  better  can  be  done  for  you. 
Surely  you  and  Mary  have  not  quarrelled  1" 

"  She  has  renounced  me  for  ever !" 

Mr.  Williams  was  a  good  deal  shocked  by  this  unex 
pected  interview',  and  when  he  went  home  inquired  into 
the  state  of  affairs.  He  censured  his  wife  severely  for 
her  part  in  the  matter,  upon  her  own  statement ;  and  told 
her  plainly  that  she  had  not  treated  Sally  as  a  sister  should 


THE     SISTERS.  459 

have  been  treated.  He  went  to  see  Mrs.  Haller  that  day, 
and  used  many  arguments  to  induce  her  to  come  back,  or 
at  least  to  give  up  her  newly-adopted  calling. 

"  Put  me  in  a  better  and  more  comfortable  way  of 
making  a  living,  Mr.  Williams,"  was  her  answer — "and  I 
will  most  gladly  adopt  it.  I  know  of  no  other  that  will 
suit  me.  I  cannot  longer  remain  dependent.  In  your 
house  I  was  dependent,  and  daily  and  hourly  I  was  made 
to  feel  that  dependence,  in  the  most  galling  manner. 

By  her  first  day's  efforts  in  the  market-house,  Mrs. 
Haller  earned  three-quarters  of  a  dollar,  with  which  she 
bought  food  for  herself  and  children,  and  re-invested  the 
original  amount.  On  the  next  day,  as  on  the  first,  she 
disposed  of  her  whole  stock,  and  was  so  fortunate  in  her 
sales  as  to  clear  one  dollar.  On  the  next  day  she  did  not 
sell  more  than  half  of  her  little  stock,  and  cleared  only 
thirty-seven-and-a-half  cents  on  that.  Greatly  discouraged 
she  went  home  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  was  still  further 
cast  down  at  finding  her  husband  there,  come  to  take  up  his 
lodgings,  and  eat  up  her  meagre  earnings  from  her  children. 

She  remonstrated  against  his  coming  back,  but  with 
drunken  oath  and  cruel  threats  he  let  her  know  that  he 
should  stay  there  in  spite  of  her.  Before  night,  her  oldest 
son,  a  worthless  vagabond,  also  made  his  appearance,  and 
between  them  swept  off  all  the  food,  that  she  had  bought 
with  the  profits  on  her  five  dollars,  which  she  had  resolv 
ed  from  the  first  not  to  break.  On  the  next  morning  she 
cleared  a  full  dollar,  and  on  Saturday,  another.  But  her 
increased  family  prevented  her  adding  a  cent  of  the 
profits  to  her  original  capital.  After  the  market  on 
Saturday  morning,  she  went  out  and  bought  about  three 
dollars  worth  of  eggs,  at  ten  cents  a  dozen,  which,  before 
night,  she  sold  at  twelve-and-a-half  cents,  thus  clearing 
twenty-five  cents  on  the  dollar,  or  three-quarters  of  a 
dollar  in  all.  With  a  dollar  and  three-quarters  that  she 
had  made  that  day,  she  laid  in  a  supply  of  common  and 
substantial  food. 

On  Sunday  she  went,  as  was  her  custom,  to  church, 
and  took  her  two  little  girls  with  her.  Her  husband  and 
son  remained  at  home.  When  she  returned  from  service 
they  were  gone ;  instinctively  turning  to  where  she  had 
concealed  her  little  treasure,  of  five  dollars,  she  found 
that  it  had  also  disappeared!  She  knew  well  how  to 


460  THE     SISTERS. 

account  for  its  loss.  Her  husband  and  son  had  robbed 
her !  The  little  hope  that  had  animated  her  breast  for  the 
last  few  days,  gave  way,  and  she  sunk  down  into  a  con 
dition  of  mind  that  was  almost  despair.  Towards  even 
ing,  her  husband  and  son  came  home  drunk,  and  lay  all 
night  stupid.  In  the  morning,  they  stole  off  by  day-light, 
and  she  was  left  alone  with  her  little  ones,  to  brood  over 
her  melancholy  prospect.  She  could  not,  of  course,  go 
to  market,  for  she  had  nothing  to  sell,  nor  anything  with 
•which  to  purchase  a  little  stock. 

Mr.  Williams,  who  felt  a  lively  interest  in  her  case, 
especially  on  account  of  the  unkind  treatment  she  had 
received  from  his  wife,  used  to  stop  and  inquire  into  her 
prospects  whenever  he  saw  her  in  the  market,  and  had 
been  looking  round  for  something  better  for  her  to  do. 
Missing  her  this  morning,  he  went  to  her  house,  and  there 
found  her  in  a  state  of  complete  despondency.  He  en 
couraged  her  in  the  best  way  he  could,  but  did  not  ad 
vance  her  another  little  capital,  which  he  would  willingly 
have  done  under  other  circumstances,  and  then  went 
away,  determined  to  get  her  some  situation  which  would 
be  more  suitable  for  one  of  her  habits  and  feelings. 

Not  an  hour  after  he  learned  that  a  head  nurse  was 
much  wanted  at  the  alms-house.  He  made  immediate 
application  for  her,  and  was  happy  in  securing  the  place. 
It  was  at  once  offered  to  her,  and  she  accepted  it  with 
gladness,  especially  as  she  would  be  allowed  to  bring  her 
two  children  with  her.  In  due  time,  she  removed  to  her 
new  abode,  and  soon  won  the  good-will  and  kind  con 
sideration  of  the  Board  of  Trustees,  and  the  affectionate 
regards  of  those  to  whose  afflictions  she  was  called  to 
minister.  Her  two  little  girls  were  educated  at  the  alms- 
house  school,  and  grew  up  amiable,  intelligent,  and  indus 
trious.  Of  her  other  children,  I  never  knew  much. 

Mrs.  Williams  seemed  to  think  the  situation  of  her  sister 
at  the  alms-house,  almost  as  disgraceful  as  her  place  in 
the  market.  She  never  renewed  a  communication  with 
her.  Even  up  to  the  hour  when  Mrs.  Haller  was  called 
to  her  final  account,  which  was  many  years  after,  her 
sister  neither  saw  nor  spoke  to  her. 


THE  MAIDEN'S  ERROR. 


THE  story  of  Julia  Forrester  is  but  a  revelation  of  what 
occurs  every  day.  I  draw  aside  the  veil  for  a  moment, — 
would  that  some  one  might  gaze  with  trembling  on  the 
picture,  and  be  saved  ! 

The  father  of  Julia  had  served  an  apprenticeship  to  the 
tanning  and  currying  business.  He  had  been  taken  when 
an  orphan  boy  of  twelve  years  old,  by  a  man  in  this  trade, 
and  raised  by  him,  without  any  of  the  benefits  of  educa 
tion.  At  twenty-one  he  could  read  and  write  a  little,  but 
had  no  taste  for  improving  his  mind.  His  master,  being 
well  pleased  with  him  for  his  industry  and  sobriety, 
offered  him  a  small  interest  in  his  business,  shortly  after 
he  was  free,  which  soon  enabled  him  to  marry,  and  settle 
himself  in  life. 

His  new  companion  was  the  daughter  of  a  reduced 
tradesman  ;  she  had  high  notions  of  gentility,  but  possessed 
more  vanity  and  love  of  admiration  than  good  sense.  Nei 
ther  of  them  could  comprehend  the  true  relation  of  parents. 
If  they  fed  their  children  well,  clothed  them  well,  and  sent 
them  to  the  most  reputable  schools,  they  imagined  that 
they  had,  in  part,  discharged  their  duty;  and,  wholly,  when 
they  had  obtained  good-looking  and  well-dressed  husbands 
for  their  daughters.  This  may  be  a  little  exaggerated ; 
but  such  an  inference  might  readily  have  been  drawn  by 
one  who  attentively  considered  their  actions. 

I  shall  not  spend  further  time  in  considering  their  charac 
ters.  Their  counterpart  may  be  found  in  every  street, 
and  in  every  neighbourhood.  The  curious  student  of 
human  nature  can  study  them  at  will. 

Julia  Forrester  was  the  child  of  such  parents.  When 
she  was  fifteen,  they  were  in  easy  circumstances.  But  at 
that  critical  period  of  their  daughter's  life,  they  were  igno 
rant  of  human  nature,  and  entirely  unskilled  in  the  means 
of  detecting  false  pretension,  or  discovering  true  merit. 

461 


462  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

Indeed,  they  were  much  more  ready  to  consider  the  former 
as  true,  and  the  latter  as  false.  The  unpretending  modesty 
of  real  worth  they  generally  mistook  for  imbecility,  or  a 
consciousness  of  questionable  points  of  character ;  while 
bold-faced  assurance  was  thought  to  be  an  open  exhibition 
of  manliness — the  free,  undisguised  manner  of  those  who 
had  nothing  to  conceal. 

It  is  rarely  that  a  girl  of  Julia's  age,  but  little  over  fif 
teen,  possesses  much  insight  into  character.  It  was 
enough  for  her  that  her  parents  invited  young  men  to  the 
house,  or  permitted  them  to  visit  her.  Her  favour,  or  dis 
like,  was  founded  upon  mere  impulse,  or  the  caprice  of 
first  impressions.  Among  her  earliest  visitors,  was  a 
young  man  of  twenty-two,  clerk  in  a  dry-goods'  store. 
He  had  an  open,  prepossessing  manner,  but  had  indulged 
in  vicious  habits  for  many  years,  and  was  thoroughly 
unprincipled.  His  name  I  will  call  Warburton.  Another 
visitor  was  a  modest,  sensible  young  man,  also  clerk  in 
another  dry-goods'  store.  He  was  correct  in  all  his  habits, 
and  inclined  to  be  religious.  He  had  no  particular  end  in 
view  in  visiting  at  Forrester's,  more  than  to  mingle  in 
society.  Still,  as  he  continued  his  visits,  he  began  to  grow 
fond  of  Julia,  notwithstanding  her  extreme  youth.  The 
fact  was,  she  had  shot  up  suddenly  into  a  graceful  woman; 
and  her  manners  were  really  attractive.  Little  could  be 
gleaned,  however,  in  her  society,  or  in  that  of  but  few  who 
visited  her,  from  the  current  chit-chat.  It  was  all  chaffy 
stuff, — mere  small-talk.  Let  me  introduce  the  reader  to 
their  more  particular  acquaintance.  There  is  assembled 
at  Mr.  Forrester's  a  gay  social  party,  such  as  met  there 
almost  every  week.  It  is  in  the  summer  time.  The  win 
dows  are  thrown  open,  and  the  passers-by  can  look  in 
upon  the  light-hearted  group,  at  will.  Warburton  and 
Julia  are  trifling  in  conversation,  and  the  others  are  wasting 
the  moments  as  frivolously  as  possible.  We  will  join  them 
without  ceremony. 

"  A  more  beautiful  ring  than  this  on  your  finger,  I  have 
never  seen.  Do  you  know  why  a  ring  is  used  in  mar 
riage  ?" 

"  La !  no,  Mr.  Warburton.     Do  tell  me." 

"  Why,  because  it  is  an  emblem  of  love,  which  has  nei 
ther  beginning  nor  end." 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.  463 

"  And  how  will  you  make  that  out,  Sir  Oracle  ?  ha  ' 
ha!" 

«  Why  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff.  True  love  has  no  be 
ginning  ;  for  those  who  are  to  be  married  love  each  other 
before  they  meet.  And  it  cannot  have  an  end.  So 
you  see  that  a  ring  is  the  emblem  of  love." 

"  That 's  an  odd  notion ;  where  did  you  pick  it  up  7" 

"  I  picked  it  up  nowhere.  It  is  a  cherished  opinion  of 
my  own,  and  I  believe  in  it  as  firmly  as  some  of  the  Jews 
of  old  did  in  the  transmigration  of  souls." 

"  You  are  a  queer  body." 

"  Yes,  I  have  got  some  queer  notions ;  so  people  say : 
but  I  think  I  am  right,  and  those  who  don't  agree  with  me, 
wrong.  A  mere  difference  of  opinion,  however.  All 
things  are  matters  of  opinion.  Aint  it  so,  Perkins?"  ad 
dressing  the  young  man  before  alluded  to. 

"  What  were  you  talking  about  7" 

"  Why,  I  was  just  saying  to  Julia  that  all  different 
ideas  entertained  by  different  persons,  were  differences  of 
opinion  merely." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
truth,  or  error?" 

"  I  do — in  the  abstract." 

"  Then  we  differ,  of  course — and  as  it  would  be,  accord 
ing  to  your  estimation,  a  mere  difference  of  opinion,  no 
argument  on  the  subject  would  be  in  place  here." 

"  Of  course  not,"  replied  Warburton,  rather  coolly,  and 
dropped  the  subject.  Julia  almost  saw  that  Warburton 
had  made  himself  appear  foolish  in  the  eyes  of  the  dull, 
insipid  Perkins — but  her  mental  vision  was  closed  up  as 
firmly  as  ever,  in  a  moment. 

A  loud  burst  of  laughter  from  a  group  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  drew  the  attention  of  the  company,  who 
flocked  to  the  scene  of  mirth,  and  soon  all  were  chattering 
and  laughing  in  a  wild  and  incoherent  manner,  so  loud  as 
to  attract  the  notice  of  persons  in  the  street. 

"  Ha !  he !  he !"  laughed  a  young  lady,  hysterically, 
sinking  into  a  chair,  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth — 
"  what  a  droll  body !" 

"  He-a,  he-a,  he-o-o-o,"  more  boisterously  roared  out  a 
fun-loving  chap,  who  knew  more  about  good  living  than 


464  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

good  manners.  And  so  the  laugh  passed  round.  The 
cause  of  all  this  uproar,  was  a  merry  fellow,  who  had 
made  a  rabbit  out  of  one  of  the  girl's  handkerchiefs,  and 
was  springing  it  from  his  hand  against  the  wall.  He 
seemed  to  have  a  fair  appreciation  of  the  character  of  his 
associates  for  the  evening ;  and  though  himself  perfectly 
competent  to  behave  well  in  the  best  society,  chose  to  act 
the  clown  in  this. 

In  due  course,  order  was  restored,  more  from  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  waiter  with  nuts  and  raisins,  than  from  an 
natural  reaction. 

"  Name  my  apple,  Mr.  Perkins," — (don't  smile,  reader 
—  it 's  a  true  picture)  —  whispered  a  young  lady  to  the 
young  man  sitting  next  her. 

"  It  is  named." 

"  Name  my  apple,  Mr.  Collins,"  said  Julia,  with  a  nod 
and  a  smile. 

"  It  is  named." 

"  And  mine,  Mr.  Collins" — "And  mine,  Mr.  Warbur- 
ton" — "  And  mine,  Mr.  Jones." 

The  apples  being  eaten,  the  important  business  of  count 
ing  seed  came  next  in  order. 

'  How  many  have  you  got,  Julia  ?" 
Six." 

She  loves !" 
1  Who  is  it,  Mr.  Collins  ?"  asked  two  or  three  voices. 

'  Mr.  Warburton,"  was  the  reply. 

'  I  thought  so,  I  thought  so, — see  how  she  blushes." 

And  in  fact  the  red  blood  was  mounting  fast  to  Julia's 
face. 

The  incident  escaped  neither  the  eye  of  Warburton  nor 
of  Perkins.  To  go  through  the  whole  insipid  scene  would 
not  interest  any  reader,  and  so  we  will  omit  it. 

After  the  apples  were  eaten,  "hull-gull," — "nuts  in  my 
hand,"  &c.,  were  played,  and  then  music  was  called  for 

"  Miss  Simmons,  give  us  an  air,  if  you  please." 

"  Indeed  you  must  excuse  me,  I  am  out  of  practice." 

"No  excuse  can  be  taken.  We  all  know  that  you  can 
play,  and  we  must  hear  you  this  evening." 

"  I  would  willingly  oblige  the  company,  but  I  have  not 
touched  the  piano  for  two  months,  and  cannot  play  fit  to 
be  heard." 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.  465 

"  O,'  never  mind,  we  '11  be  the  judges  of  that." 

"  Come,  Miss  Simmons,  do  play  for  us  now,  that 's  a 
good  soul !" 

"  Indeed  you  must  excuse  me !" 

But  no  excuse  would  be  taken.  And  in  spite  of  pro 
testations,  she  was  forced  to  take  a  seat  at  the  piano. 

"  Well,  since  I  must,  I  suppose  I  must.  What  will  you 
have  I" 

"Give  us  « Bonny  Doon'  —  it  is  so  sweet  and  melan 
choly,"  said  an  interesting-looking  young  man. 

" '  Charlie  over  the  Water,'  is  beautiful — I  dote  on  that 
song ;  do  sing  it,  Miss  Simmons !" 

"  Give  us  '  Auld  Lang  Syne.' " 

"  Yes,  or  '  Burns's  Farewell.' " 

" '  Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night,'  Miss  Simmons — you  can 
sing  that." 

"  Yes,  '  Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night,'— Miss  Simmons/'  said 
half-a-dozen  voices,  and  so  that  was  finally  chosen.  After 
running  her  fingers  over  the  keys  for  a  few  moments,  Miss 
Simmons  started  off. 

Before  she  had  half  finished  the  first  verse,  the  hum  of 
voices,  which  had  commenced  as  soon  as  she  began  to 
sing,  rose  to  such  a  pitch  as  almost  to  drown  the  sound 
of  the  instrument.  She  laboured  on  through  about  a  verse 
and  a  half  of  the  song,  when  she  rose  from  the  piano,  and 
was  proceeding  to  her  vacant  seat. 

"  O  no ! — no  ! — no  !"  said  half-a-dozen  voices  at  once. 
"  That  will  never  do — we  must  have  another  song.  " 

"  Indeed  I  can't  sing  to-night,  and  must  be  excused," 
said  the  lady  warmly,  and  so  she  was  excused.  But  soon 
another  was  chosen  to  be  victimized  at  the  piano,  and 
"  will-ye-nill-ye,"  sing  she  must.  Simultaneous  with  the 
sound  of  the  instrument  rose  the  hum  of  voices,  which 
grew  louder  and  louder,  until  the  performer  stopped,  dis 
couraged  and  chagrined. 

"  That's  beautiful !  How  well  you  play,  Miss  Emma  !" 
and  Miss  Emma  was  forced  to  resume  the  seat  she  had 
left  half  in  mortification.  All  was  again  still  for  a  mo 
ment. 

"  Can  you  play  the  «  Harp  and  Lute,'  Miss  Emma?" 

"  No  sir." 

"  Yes  you  can,  though,  for  I  've  heard  you  many  a 
57 


466  THE      MAIDENS     ERROR. 

time,"  said  a  smart  young  lady  sitting  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  room. 

The  blood  mounted  to  the  performer's  cheeks.  "In 
deed  you're  mistaken  though,"  half  pettishly  replied  Miss 
Emma. 

"  But  you  can  play  « Yankee  Doodle,' "  retorted  the 
first  speaker.  Miss  Emma  left  the  instrument  in  anger. 

"  I'll  never  speak  to  the  pert  minx  again  as  long  as  I 
live,"  whispered  Miss  Emma  in  the  ear  of  a  friend. 

Thus  ended  the  musical  exhibition  for  that  evening.  As 
the  spirit  of  wine  grew  more  active,  the  men  became  less 
formal  in  their  attentions,  and  the  young  ladies  less  re 
served.  Before  the  company  broke  up,  I  almost  blush  to 
say,  that  there  was  scarcely  a  lady  present  who  had  not 
suffered  her  red-ripe  lips  to  be  touched  by  those  of  every 
young  man  in  the  room.  And  on  all  these  proceedings, 
the  parents  of  Julia  looked  on  with  keen  satisfaction! 
They  liked  to  see  the  young  people  enjoying  themselves ! 

Then  there  were  rambles  by  moonlight,  during  which 
soft  things  were  whispered  in  the  ears  of  the  young  ladies. 
These  were  the  occasions  on  which  Warburton  loved 
most  to  steal  away  the  fond  confidence  of  Julia  ;  and,  by 
degrees,  he  succeeded  in  fixing  her  regard  upon  himself. 

Consent  was  asked  of  the  parents,  and  given  ;  and  soon 
Julia  Forrester  was  Mrs.  Warburton.  It  was  only  six 
months  after  the  marriage  that  a  commercial  crisis  arrived; 
one  of  those  reactions  from  prosperity  which  occur  in  this 
country  with  singular  regularity,  every  ten  or  fifteen  years, 
and  swept  from  Julia's  father  the  whole  of  his  property. 
This  sudden  revulsion  so  preyed  upon  his  mind,  that  a 
serious  illness  came  on,  which  hurried  him  in  a  brief  period 
to  the  grave.  The  mother  of  Julia  soon  followed  him. 
Warburton,  ere  this,  had  neglected  his  wife,  and  wrung 
from  her  many  a  secret  tear.  He  had  married  her  for  the 
prospect  of  worldly  gain  which  the  connection  held  out, 
and  not  from  any  genuine  regard.  And  when  all  hope  of 
a  fortune  was  suddenly  cut  off,  he  as  suddenly  appeared 
in  his  real  character  of  a  heartless  and  unprincipled  man. 

He  held  the  situation  of  clerk,  at  the  time,  in  the  same 
store  where  he  had  been  for  years.  But  immediately  upon 
the  death  of  his  father-in-law,  a  flood  of  demands  for  debts 
due  here  and  there  carne  in  upon  him,  and  not  having  where- 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.  467 

with  to  meet  them,  he  was  thrown  into  jail,  and  obtained 
his  freedom  only  by  availing  himself  of  the  law  made 
and  provided  for  the  benefit  of  Insolvent  Debtors. 

His  poor  wife  knew  nothing  of  the  proceedings  against 
him,  until  he  was  lodged  in  the  jail.  Hour  after  hour  had 
passed  since  the  time  for  his  return  to  dinner,  and  yet  she 
listened  in  vain  for  his  well-known  footsteps.  She  felt 
strangely  oppressed  in  feeling  when  the  dim  twilight  came 
stealing  sadly  on,  and  still  he  came  not  home.  But  when 
the  clock  struck  nine,  ten,  eleven, — her  distress  of  mind 
became  heightened  to  agony.  The  question,  so  often  asked 
of  herself,  "Where  can  he  be?"  could  find  no  answer. 
All  night  long  she  sat  listening  at  the  window,  and  sunk 
into  a  heavy  slumber,  just  as  the  grey  light  of  morning 
stole  into  the  window  and  paled  the  expiring  lamp.  From 
this  slumber,  which  had  continued  for  nearly  two  hours, 
she  was  aroused  by  the  entrance  of  a  servant,  who  handed 
her  a  note,  addressed  in  the  well-known  hand  of  her 
husband.  Tremblingly  she  tore  open  the  seal ;  at  the  first 
words : 

Jail. 

DEAR  JULIA: 

the  note  fell  from  her  hand,  and  she  pressed  her  aching 
head  for  a  moment,  as  if  she  feared  that  her  senses  would 
leave  her.  Then  snatching  up  the  paper,  she  read : — 

"  Yesterday  I  was  sent  here  for  debt.  I  owe  more 
than  I  can  possibly  pay,  and  I  see  no  chance  of  getting 
out  but  by  availing  myself  of  the  Insolvent  Law,  which  I 
am  determined  to  do.  Don't  let  it  trouble  you,  Julia ;  I 
shall  not  be  here  long.  To-morrow  I  shall  probably  be  at 
liborty.  Good-bye,  and  keep  a  brave  heart, 

H.  WARBURTON." 

For  some  time  after  reading  this  letter,  a  stupor  cam 
over  her  senses.  Utterly  unprepared  for  such  a  distressing 
event,  she  knew  not  how  to  act.  The  idea  of  a  jail  had 
ever  been  associated  in  her  mind  with  disgrace  and  crime, 
and  to  think  that  her  own  husband  was  in  jail  almost  be 
reft  her  of  rational  thought.  Slowly,  however,  she  at 
length  rallied,  and  found  herself  able  to  appreciate  her 
situation,  and  to  think  more  clearly  on  her  course  of  action. 


THE      MAIDENS      ERROR. 

Her  first  determination  was  to  go  to  her  husband.  This 
she  immediately  did.  When  admitted,  she  fell  senseless 
in  his  arms,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  she  recovered 
her  consciousness.  Her  presence  seemed  to  move  his 
feelings  less  than  it  annoyed  him.  There  was  nothing 
about  his  manner  that  sought  affectionately  her  sympathy 
and  confidence — that  which  gives  woman,  in  situations  no 
matter  how  distressing,  something  so  much  like  happiness 
to  bestow.  He  gave  her  but  little  satisfaction  as  to  the 
manner  in  which  he  became  involved,  and  when,  after 
several  hours,  she  prepared  to  go  home,  at  his  suggestion, 
he  told  her  that  she  must  not  come  there  again,  as  it  was 
not  a  fit  place  for  her. 

"If  you  are  here,  Henry,"  was  her  reply,  the  tears 
starting  freshly  to  her  eyes — "it  is  a  fit  place  for  me." 

"  That's  all  nonsense  and  sentiment,  Julia  !  This  is  no 
place  for  you,  and  you  must  not  come  again.  I  shall  be 
out  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  A  day  or  two  is  a  long — long  time," — and  the  poor 
wife's  voice  trembled  as  she  spoke. 

"  It  will  soon  pass  away." 

"  It  will  seem  ages  to  me,  and  you  in  this  dreadful  place. 
I  must  come  to-morrow,  Henry.  Tell  me  who  h'as  im 
prisoned  yon,  and  I  will  go  to  him,  and  come  to-morrow 
with  his  answer.  He  cannot  stand  the  pleadings  of  a  wife 
for  her  husband." 

"  It 's  no  use,  at  all,  Julia.  He  is  a  hard-faced  villain, 
and  will  insult  you  if  you  see  him." 

"  He  cannot — he  dare  not !" 

"  He  dare  do  anything." 

"  Dear  Henry,  tell  me  his  name." 

"  No  ! — no  ! — no  ! — It 's  no  use  to  ask  me." 

She  had  many  times  before  suffered  from  his  petulanc 
and  coldness ;  but  under  present  circumstances,  when  she 
sought  to  bring  him  sympathy  and  relief,  to  be  repulsed, 
seemed  as  though  it  would  break  her  heart.  Slowly  and 
in  tears  did  she  leave  the  dreadful  place  that  confined  her 
husband,  and  sought  her  home.  There  she  endeavoured 
to  rally  her  scattered  thoughts,  and  devise  some  means 
of  relief.  Her  first  movement  was  to  go  to  the  employers 
of  her  husband.  They  received  her  coldly,  and  after  she 
Had  stated  the  condition  of  her  husband,  told  her  that  they 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.  469 

could  offer  no  relief,  and  hinted  that  his  conduct  had  been 
such  as  to  forfeit  their  confidence.  This  was  a  double 
blow ;  and  she  returned  home  with  but  strength  enough 
to  seek  her  chamber  and  throw  herself,  almost  fainting, 
upon  her  bed. 

For  hours  she  lay  in  a  kind  of  nervous  stupor,  the  most 
fantastic  and  troubled  images  floating  through  her  brain. 
Sometimes  she  would  start  up,  at  the  imagined  sound  of 
her  husband's  voice,  and  spring  to  the  chamber-door  to 
meet  him.  But  the  chilling  reality  would  drive  her  back 
in  tears.  Where  now  were  the  crowds  of  friends  that 
but  a  short  time  since  had  hovered  round  her?  They  were 
but  fashionable,  soulless  insects — the  cold  winds  of  adver 
sity  had  swept  them  away.  Since  the  failure  and  death 
of  her  father,  not  one  of  the  many  who  had  called  her 
friend  had  come  near  her  lonely  dwelling.  But  she  could 
not  complain.  More  than  one  friend  had  she  deserted, 
when  misfortune  came  suddenly  upon  them. 

She  took  no  food  through  the  whole  of  that  dreadful 
day,  and  could  find  no  oblivious  sleep  during  the  night  of 
agony  that  followed.  On  the  next  day,  just  as  she  had 
determined  to  go  again  to  the  prison,  her  quick  ear  recog 
nised  the  foot-fall  of  her  husband.  She  sprang  to  meet 
him,  with  a  gladder  heart  than  she  had  known  for  many 
weeks — but  his  cold  manner  and  brief  words  threw  back 
upon  her  feelings  a  sickening  chill. 

"  We  must  move  from  here,  Julia,"  said  he,  after  a  few 
silent  moments,  and  looked  at  her  as  though  he  expected 
objection  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  I  am  willing,  if  it  is  necessary,  Henry.  I  will  go  any 
where  with  yon" 

Her  manner  softened  his  feelings,  and  he  said  more 
tenderly, 

"  Things  are  changed  with  me,  Julia.  In  expectation 
of  something  handsome  from  your  father,  I  have  been  im 
prudent,  and  am  now  largely  in  debt.  The  Messrs.  R.  & 
L.  will  not,  I  am  sure,  take  me  back  into  their  store,  and 
it  will  be  hard,  I  am  afraid,  for  me  to  get  a  situation,  in 
town.  Our  furniture,  which  I  have  secured  to  you,  is  all 
we  have,  except  about  money  enough  to  pay  our  quarter's 
rent  now  due.  I  see  no  wiser  plan  for  us  than  to  sell  this 
furniture,  except  enough  for  one  chamber,  and  then  go  to 


470  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

boarding.  It  will  bring  a  sum  sufficient  to  pay  our  board 
and  other  expenses  for  at  least  one  year,  if  we  manage 
prudently ;  and,  surely,  I  can  get  something  to  do  in  the 
mean  time." 

"  I  am  willing  for  anything,  dear  Henry !"  said  his  wife, 
twining  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  laying  her  pale  cheek 
to  his.  The  furniture  was  accordingly  sold,  and  the 
reduced  and  humbled  couple  removed  to  a  boarding- 
house. 

As  he  had  expected,  Warburton  found  it  hard  to  get 
employment.  Finally,  after  doing  nothing  for  two  months, 
he  accepted  the  situation  of  bar-keeper  at  one  of  the  city 
hotels.  Julia  pleaded  hard  with  him  not  to  go  there,  for 
she  feared  the  influence  of  such  a  place  upon  him,  but 
he  would  listen  to  no  argument. 

His  wife  soon  began  to  observe  indications  of  a  change 
for  the  worse  in  his  character.  He  grew  more  pettish 
and  dissatisfied,  and  frequently  acted  towards  her  with 
great  unkindness.  He  was  rarely,  if  ever,  at  home  before 
midnight,  and  then  repulsed  every  affectionate  act  or 
word.  Several  times  he  came  in  intoxicated,  and  once, 
while  in  that  state,  he  struck  her  a  severe  blow  on  the 
head,  which  caused  an  illness  of 'several  weeks. 

At  the  end  of  a  year,  Warburton  had  not  only  become 
dissipated  in  his  habits,  but  had  connected  himself  with  a 
set  of  gamblers,  who,  as  he  proved  to  be  a  skilful  hand, 
and  not  at  all  squeamish,  resolved  to  send  him  on  a  trip 
down  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi,  to  New  Orleans,  for  mu 
tual  benefit.  To  this  he  had  not  the  slightest  objection. 
He  told  his  wife  that  he  was  going  to  New  Orleans  on 
business  for  the  Stage  Office,  and  would  probably  be  gone 
all  winter.  Unkind  as  he  had  grown,  it  was  hard  part 
ing.  Gladly  would  she  have  taken  all  the  risk  of  fatigue, 
to  have  accompanied  him  with  her  babe  but  four  months 
old,  but  he  would  listen  to  no  such  proposal.  When  he 
did  go,  she  felt  sick  at  heart,  and,  as  the  thought  flashed 
across  her  mind  that  he  might  probably  desert  her,  help 
less  and  friendless  as  she  was,  it  seemed  as  if  the  fever  of 
her  mind  would  end  in  madness. 

Regularly,  however,  for  several  months,  she  heard  from 
him,  and  each  time  he  enclosed  her  money ;  but  little 
more  than  was  sufficient  to  meet  expenses.  In  the  last 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.  471 

letter  she  received,  he  hinted  that  he  might  return  home 
in  a  few  weeks.  At  the  usual  time  of  receiving  a  letter, 
she  waited  day  after  day,  hoping  and  almost  fearing  to 
receive  one  —  anxious  to  hear  from  him,  and  yet  fearing 
that  he  might  have  changed  his  mind  as  to  his  contem 
plated  return. 

Week  after  week  passed,  and  there  were  no  tidings. 
Day  after  day  she  went  to  the  post-office  with  an  anxious 
heart,  which  throbbed  quicker  and  quicker  as  the  clerk 
mechanically  and  carelessly  turned  over  letter  after  letter, 
and  at  last  pronounced  the  word  "none"  with  profes 
sional  indifference.  Then  it  would  seem  to  stop,  and  lie 
like  a  motionless  weight  in  her  bosom,  and  she  would  steal 
away  paler  and  sicker  than  when  she  came.  At  last,  her 
distress  of  mind  became  so  great,  that  she  went,  reluc 
tantly,  to  the  stage-office,  to  inquire  if  they  had  heard 
from  him  recently.  To  her  hesitating,  anxious  inquiry, 
she  received  the  brief  reply  that  they  knew  nothing  of 
him. 

"  But  is  he  not  in  the  employment  of  this  office  ?" 

"  I  hope  not,"  was  the  short,  sneering  reply  of  one  of 
the  clerks. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  she  asked,  in  an  excited 
tone — "  he  is  my  husband." 

The  manner  of  the  man  instantly  changed.  "  Nothing, 
ma'am. — It  was  only  a  thoughtless  reply.  He  is  not,  how 
ever,  in  our  employment,  and  never  has  been." 

Mrs.  Warburton  turned  pale  as  ashes.  A  chair  was 
instantly  handed  to  her,  and  a  glass  of  water,  and  every 
kind  attention  offered. 

At  this  moment  a  man  entered,  who  eyed  Mrs.  W.  with 
a  vulgar  stare.  The  person  who  had  first  spoken  to  Mrs. 
W.  took  him  aside,  and  after  conversing  in  whispers  for  a 
few  moments,  turned  to  her  and  said  that  he  had  just 
learned  that  her  husband  had  joined  a  band  of  traders, 
and  was  now  on  his  way  to  Mexico. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?"  was  the  quick  reply. 

"  This  gentleman  has  just  told  me." 

"  And  how  do  you  know,  sir  ?" 

"  I  received  a  letter  from  him  three  weeks  ago,  in  which 
he  stated  the  fact  to  me.  He  has  been  in  my  employment 


472  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

ever  sinoe  he  has  been  away,  but  has  left  it  and  gone  to 
Mexico." 

"  When  did  he  say  he  would  return  ?"  she  asked,  in  a 
calm  voice. 

"  That  is  uncertain,  madam." 

She  tottered  out  of  the  office,  and  stole  home  with  an 
enfeebled  step.  "Forsaken!  —  forsaken!" — was  all  the 
form  her  thoughts  would  take,  until  she  met  the  sweet 
face  of  her  babe,  and  then  her  heart  felt  warmer,  and  not 
all  forsaken. 

"  Poor  thing !  how  I  pity  her,"  said  the  clerk  in  the 
stage-office,  when  Mrs.  W.  had  retired. 

"  Her  husband  is  a  scoundrel,  that 's  all  I  know  about 
it,"  responded  the  gentleman-gambler,  who  had  sent  War- 
burton  out  on  a  swindling  expedition. 

"  The  more  the  pity  for  his  poor  wife." 

"  I  wonder  if  she  has  any  property  of  his  in  her  hands  ?" 
queried  the  gambler. 

"  Why?" 

"  Why  ? — Why  because  I  '11  have  my  own  out  of  it  if 
she  has.  I  have  his  note,  payable  in  a  week,  for  money 
lent ;  and  if  he  has  got  a  dollar  here,  I  '11  have  it." 

"  You  '11  not  turn  his  wife  out  of  doors,  will  you  ?" 

"  Will  I  ?" — and  his  face  grew  dark  with  evil  thoughts 
— "  Will  I  ? — yes  ! — what  care  I  for  the  whining  wench  ! 
I  '11  see  her  to-morrow,  and  know  what  we  have  both  to 
expect." 

"  Coulson  !"  said  the  clerk,  in  an  excited  but  firm  voice — 
"  You  shall  not  trouble  that  helpless,  unfortunate  woman!" 

"  Shall  not  ?  ha !  Pray,  Mr.  Sympathy,  and  how  can 
you  hinder  me  ?" 

"  Look  you  to  that,  sir.     I  act,  you  know,  not  threaten." 

The  gambler's  face  grew  darker,  but  the  clerk  turned 
away  with  a  look  of  contempt,  and  resumed  his  employ 
ment. 

That  night  he  sought  the  dwelling  of  Mrs.  Warburton. 

He  found  her  boarding  at  a  respectable  house  on 

street.  He  named  his  business  at  once,  and  warned  her 
not  to  allow  herself  to  get  in  the  power  of  Coulson,  who 
was  a  gambler,  and  an  abandoned  villain. 

When  he  understood  her  real  situation — that  she  was  in 
debt  for  board,  and  without  a  dollar,  forsaken  of  her  hus 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.          473 

band,  and  among  strangers,  his  heart  ached  for  her.  Him 
self  but  on  the  salary  of  a  clerk,  he  could  give  little  or  no 
assistance.  But  advice  and  sympathy  he  tendered,  and 
requested  her  to  call  on  him  at  any  time,  if  she  thought 
that  he  could  aid  her.  A  kind  word,  a  sympathising  tone, 
is,  to  one  in  such  a  sad  condition,  like  gentle  dews  to  the 
parched  ground. 

"  Above  all,"  was  his  parting  admonition,  "  beware  of 
Coulson  !  He  will  injure  your  character  if  he  can.  Do 
not  see  him.  Forbid  the  servants  to  admit  him.  He  will, 
if  he  fixes  his  heart  upon  seeing  you,  leave  no  stone  un. 
turned  to  accomplish  it.  Bnt  waver  not  in  your  determi 
nation.  And  be  sure  to  let  me  know  if  he  persecutes  you 
too  closely.  Be  resolute,  and  fear  not.  '  I  know  the  man, 
and  have  crossed  his  path  ere  this.  And  he  knows  me." 

Early  on  the  next  day,  Coulson  called,  and  with  the 
most  insinuating  address,  asked  to  see  Mrs.  Warburton. 

"  Ask  him  to  send  up  his  name,"  was  Mrs.  W.'s  reply 
to  the  information  of  the  servant,  that  a  gentleman  wished 
to  speak  to  her. 

"  Coulson,"  was  returned. 

"  Tell  him  that  I  cannot  see  him." 

To  this  answer  he  sent  back  word  that  his  business  was 
important  and  urgent. 

"  Tell  him  that  I  cannot  see  him,"  was  the  firm  reply. 

Coulson  left  the  house,  baffled  for  once.  The  next  day 
he  called,  and  sent  up  another  name. 

"  He  is  the  same  person  who  called  himself  '  Coulson' 
yesterday,"  said  the  servant  to  Mrs.  W. 

"  Tell  him  that  I  cannot  be  seen." 

"  I  '11  match  the  huzzy  yet !"  he  muttered  to  himself  as 
he  left  the  house. 

It  now  became  necessary  for  Mrs.  Warburton  to  rally 
all  the  energies  of  her  nature,  feeble  though  they  were,  and 
yet  untried.  The  rate'  of  boarding  which  she  was  re 
quired  to  pay,  was  much  beyond  what  she  could  now 
afford.  At  first  she  nearly  gave  up  to  despair.  Thus  far 
in  life,  she  had  never  earned  a  single  dollar,  and,  from  her 
earliest  recollection,  the  thought  of  working  for  money 
seemed  to  imply  degradation.  But  necessity  soon  destroys 
false  pride.  Her  greatest  concern  now  was,  what  she 
should  do  for  a  living.  She  had  learned  to  play  on  the 

58 


.THE      MAIDENS     ERROR. 

piano,  to  draw  and  paint,  and  had  practised  embroidery. 
But  in  all  these  she  had  sought  only  amusement.  In  not 
a  single  one  of  them  was  she  proficient  enough  to  teach. 
Fine  sewing  she  could  not  do.  Her  dresses  had  all  been 
made  by  the  mantua-maker,  and  her  fine  sewing  by  the 
family  sempstress.  She  had  been  raised  in  idle  pleasure — 
had  spent  her  time  in  thrumming  on  the  piano,  making 
calls,  tripping  about  the  streets,  and  entertaining  company. 
But  wherever  there  is  the  will,  there  is  a  way.  Through 
the  kind  interference  of  a  stranger,  she  was  enabled  to  act 
decisively.  Two  rooms  were  procured,  and  after  selling 
various  articles  of  costly  chamber  furniture  which  still 
remained,  she  was  enabled  to  furnish  them  plainly  and 
comfortably,  and  have  about  fifty  dollars  left.  Through 
the  kind  advice  of  this  same  stranger,  (where  were  all 
her  former  friends  ?)  employment  was  had,  by  which  she 
was  soon  able  to  earn  from  four  to  five  dollars  a  week. 

Her  employment  was  making  cigars.  At  first,  the  to 
bacco  made  her  so  sick  that  she  was  unable  to  hold  her 
head  up,  or  work  more  than  half  her  time.  But  after 
awhile  she  became  used  to  it,  and  could  work  steadily  all 
day ;  though  she  often  suffered  with  a  distressing  head 
ache.  Mrs.  Warburton  was  perhaps  the  first  woman 

who  made  cigars  in .     Through  the  application 

of  a  third  person,  to  a  manufacturer,  the  work  was 
obtained,  and  given,  from  motives  of  charity. 

She  had  been  thus  employed  for  about  three  months, 
and  was  beginning  to  work  skilfully  enough  to  earn  four 
dollars  a  week,  and  give  all  necessary  attention  to  herself 

and  child,  when  Mr. ,  the  manufacturer,  received  a 

note  signed  by  all  the  journeymen  in  his  shop,  demanding 
of  him  the  withdrawal  of  all  work  from  Mrs.  Warburton, 
on  pain  of  their  refusal  to  work  a  day  longer.  It  was  an 
infringement,  they  said,  upon  their  rights.  Women  could 
afford  to  -work  cheaper  than  men,  and  would  ruin  the 
business. 

Mr. was  well  off,  and,  withal,  a  man  who  could 

brook  no  dictation,  in  his  business.  His  journeymen  were 
paid  their  regular  W7ages,  and  had,  he  knewr,  no  right  to 
say  whom  he  should  employ ;  and  for  any  such  interfe 
rence  he  promptly  resolved  to  teach  them  a  lesson.  Ho 
was,  moreover,  indignant  that  a  parcel  of  men,  many  of 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.          475 

whom  spent  more  money  at  the  taverns  and  in  foolish  ex 
penses,  in  the  week,  than  the  poor  forsaken  mother  of  a 
young  babe  could  earn  in  that  time,  should  heartlessly 
erideavour  to  rob  the  more  than  widow  of  her  hard-earned 
mite. 

"  I  will  sacrifice  half  that  I  am  worth,  before  I  will  yield 
to  such  dictation,"  was  his  only  answer  to  the  demand. 
The  foolish  men  "struck,"  and  turned  out  to  lounge  idly 
in  taverns  and  other  places,  until  their  employer  should 
come  to  terms.  They  were,  however,  soon  convinced  of 

their  folly ;  for  but  a  few  weeks  elapsed  before  Mr. 

had  employed  females  to  make  his  cigars,  who  could 
afford  to  work  for  one-third  less  than  the  journeymen  had 
been  receiving,  and  make  good  wages  at  that.  The  con 
sequence  was,  that  the  men  who  had,  from  motives  of  sel 
fishness,  endeavoured  to  deprive  Mrs.  W.  of  her  only 
chance  of  support,  were  unable  to  obtain  work  at  any 
price.  Several  of  them  fell  into  idle  and  dissolute  habits, 
and  became  vagabonds.  Other  manufacturers  of  cigars 
followed  the  example  of  Mr. ,  and  lessened  the  de 
mand  for  journeymen ;  and  the  result  in  this  instance  was 
but  a  similar  one  to  that  which  always  follows  combina 
tions  against  employers — viz:  to  injure  the  interests  of 
journeymen. 

It  was  not  long  before  Coulson  found  out  the  retreat  of 
Mrs.  Warburton,  and  commenced  his  persecutions.  The 
note  of  her  husband  had  fallen  due,  and  his  first  movement 
was  to  demand  the  payment.  Perceiving,  however,  at 
once,  that  to  make  the  money  out  of  any  property  in  her 
possession  was  impossible,  he  changed  his  manner,  and 
offered  to  befriend  her  in  any  way  that  lay  in  his  power. 
For  a  moment  she  was  thrown  off  her  guard;  but  remem 
bering  the  caution  she  had  received,  she  assumed  a  man 
ner  of  the  most  rigid  coldness  towards  him,  and  told  him 
that  she  already  had  friends  who  would  care  for  her.  The 
next  day  she  managed  to  apprize  the  clerk  in  the  Stage 
Office  of  the  visit  of  Coulson,  who  promptly  took  measures 
to  alarm  his  fears,  for  he  was  a  coward  at  heart,  and 
effectually  prevent  his  again  troubling  her. 

Little  of  an  interesting  nature  occurred  for  about  a 
year,  when  she  received  a  letter  from  her  husband  at  Cin 
cinnati.  He  stated  that  having  despaired  of  getting  along 


476  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

in  the  business  he  had  entered  into  on  leaving , 

which  had  involved  him  in  debt,  he  had  left  with  a  com 
pany  of  traders  for  Mexico,  and  had  just  returned  with  a 
little  money,  with  which  he  wished  to  go  into  business. 

But  that  if  he  returned  to ,  he  would  be  troubled, 

and  all  he  had  taken  from  him.  He  enclosed  her  a  hun 
dred  dollar  note,  and  wished  her  to  come  to  him  immedi 
ately,  and  to  leave without  letting  any  one  know 

her  destination.  He  professed  much  sorrow  for  having 
left  her  in  so  destitute  a  condition,  but  pleaded  stern  neces 
sity  for  the  act. 

Mrs.  W.  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  In  four  days  from 
the  time  she  received  the  letter,  she  was  on  the  way  to 
Cincinnati.  Arrived  there,  she  was  met  by  her  husband 
with  some  show  of  affection.  He  was  greatly  changed 
since  she  had  seen  him,  and  showed  many  indications  of 
irregular  habits.  He  appeared  to  have  plenty  of  money, 
and  took  rooms  for  his  wife  in  a  respectable  boarding- 
house.  The  improvement  in  his  child  pleased  him  much. 
When  he  went  away  it  was  only  about  five  months  old — 
now  it  was  a  bright  little  boy,  and  could  run  about  and 
chatter  like  a  bird.  After  some  hesitation  in  regard  to  the 
kind  of  business  he  should  select,  he  at  last  determined  to 
go  into  the  river-trade.  To  this  Mrs.  Warburton  gently 
objected  ;  because  it  would  keep  him  away  from  home  for 
months  together.  But  his  capital  was  small,  and  he  at 
length  made  his  first  purchase  of  produce,  and  started  in 
a  flat-boat  for  New  Orleans.  Poor  Mrs.  W.  felt  as  if 
deserted  again  when  he  left  her.  But  at  the  end  of  three 
months  he  returned,  having  cleared  four  hundred  dollars 
by  the  trip.  He  remained  at  home  this  time  for  two 
months,  drinking  and  gambling;  and  at  the  expiration  of 
that  period  had  barely  enough  left  to  make  a  small  pur 
chase  and  start  again. 

Her  troubles,  she  plainly  saw,  were  just  beginning  again, 
and  Mrs.  Warburton  almost  wished  herself  back  again  in 
the  city,  for  which,  though  there  she  had  no  friends,  her 
heart  yearned. 

Her  husband  did  not  return,  this  time,  from  his  river- 
voyage,  for  three  months  ;  nor  did  he  send  his  wife  during 
that  time  any  money.  The  amount  left  her  was  entirely 
exhausted  before  the  end  of  the  second  month,  and  having 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.  477 

heard  nothing  of  him  since  he  went  away,  she  feared  to 
get  in  debt,  and,  therefore,  two  weeks  before  her  money 
was  out,  applied  for  work  at  a  cigar-factory.  Here  she 
was  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  employment,  and  thus  keep 
herself  above  absolute  want. 

Long  before  her  husband  returned,  her  heart  had  fear 
ful  forebodings  of  a  second  blighting  of  all  its  dearest 
hopes.  Not  the  less  painful,  were  those  anticipations,  be 
cause  she  had  once  suffered. 

One  evening  in  June,  just  three  months  from  the  time 
her  husband  left,  she  had  paused  from  her  almost  unre- 
mitted  employment,  during  the  violence  of  a  tremendous 
storm,  that  was  raging  without.  The  thunder  rattled 
around  in  startling  peals,  and  the  lightning  blazed  from 
cloud  to  cloud,  without  a  moment's  intermission.  She 
could  not  work  while  she  felt  that  the  bolt  of  death  hung 
over  her..  For  half  an  hour  had  the  storm  raged,  when 
in  one  of  the  pauses  which  indicated  its  passing  away, 
she  started  at  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  seemed  like  that 
of  her  husband.  In  the  next  moment  another  voice  min 
gled  with  it,  and  both  were  loud  and  angry.  Fearfully 
she  flung  open  the  door,  and  just  on  the  pavement,  drenched 
with  the  rain,  and  unregardful  of  the  storm,  for  one  more 
terrible  raged  within,  stood  two  men,  contending  with 
each  other  in  mortal  strife,  while  horrible  oaths  and  im 
precations  rolled  from  their  lips.  One  of  these,  from  his 
distorted  face,  rendered  momently  visible  in  the  vivid 
flashes  of  the  lightning,  and  from  his  voice,  though  loud 
and  disguised  by  passion,  she  at  once  knew  to  be  her  hus 
band.  His  antagonist  was  not  so  strong  a  man,  but  he 
was  more  active,  and  seemed  much  cooler.  Each  had  in 
his  hand  an  open  Spanish  knife,  and  both  were  striking, 
plunging,  and  parrying  thrusts  with  the  most  malignant 
fury.  It  was  an  awful  sight  to  look  upon.  Two  human 
beings  striving  for  each  other's  lives  amid  the  fury  of  a 
terrible  storm,  the  lightnings  of  which  glanced  sharply 
upon  their  glittering  knives,  revealing  their  fiend-like 
countenances  for  an  instant,  and  then  leaving  them  in 
black  darkness. 

For  a  few  moments,  Mrs.  Warburton  stood  fixed  to  the 
spot,  but,  recalling  her  scattered  senses,  she  rushed  towards 
the  combatants,  calling  upon  them  to  pause,  and  repeating 


478  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

the  name  of  her  husband  in  a  voice  of  agony.  The  result 
of  the  strife  was  delayed  but  an  instant  longer,  for  with  a 
loud  cry  her  husband  fell  bleeding  at  her  feet.  His  an 
tagonist  passed  out  of  sight  in  a  moment. 

Lifting  the  apparently  lifeless  form  of  her  husband  in 
her  arms,  Mrs.  Warburton  carried  or  rather  dragged  him 
into  the  house,  and  placed  him  upon  the  bed,  where  lay 
their  sleeping  boy.  She  then  hurried  off  for  the  nearest 
physician,  who  was  soon  in  attendance. 

The  first  sound  that  met  the  ear  of  Mrs.  Warburton,  on 
her  return,  was  the  voice  of  her  dear  child,  eagerly  calling, 
"  Pa  !  pa  !  wake  up,  pa  !" — And  there  was  the  little  fellow 
pulling  at  the  insensible  body  of  his  father,  in  an  extacy 
of  infantile  joy  at  his  return. 

"  Pa  come  home! — Pa  come  home,  mamma!"  And 
the  little  fellow  clapped  his  hands,  and  shook  the  body  of 
his  father  in  the  effort  to  wake  him. 

The  mother  gently  lifted  her  child  from  the  bed.  His 
little  face  instantly  changed  its  expression  into  one  of  fear, 
when  he  looked  into  his  mother's  countenance.  "  Pa  's 
very  sick,  and  little  Charles  must  keep  still,"  she  whispered 
to  the  child,  and  sat  him  down  in  the  next  room. 

When  the  physician  arrived,  he  found  that  the  knife  had 
entered  the  left  breast  just  above  the  heart,  but  had  not 
penetrated  far  enough  to  destroy  life.  There  were  also 
several  bad  cuts,  in  different  parts  of  his  body,  all  of  which 
required  attention.  After  dressing  them,  he  left  the  still 
insensible  man  in  the  care  of  his  wife  and  one  of  his  assist 
ants,  with  directions  to  have  him  called  should  any  alarm 
ing  symptom  occur.  It  was  not  until  the  next  morning 
that  there  was  any  apparent  return  of  consciousness  on 
the  part  of  the  wounded  man.  Then  he  asked  in  a  feeble 
voice  for  his  wife.  She  had  left  the  bed  but  a  moment 
before,  and  hearing  him  speak,  was  by  his  side  in  an 
nstant. 

"Julia,  how  came  I  here?  What  is  the  matter?"  said 
he,  rousing  up,  and  looking  anxiously  around.  But  over 
come  with  weakness  from  the  loss  of  blood,  he  sank  back 
upon  the  bed,  and  remained  apparently  insensible  for  some 
time.  But  he  soon  showed  evidence  of  painful  recollec 
tion  having  returned.  For  his  breathing  became  mqre 
laboured,  under  agitated  feelings,  and  he  glanced  his  eyes 


THE     MAIDENS     ERROR.  479 

about  the  room  with  an  eager  expression.  After  a  few 
minutes  he  buried  his  face  in  the  bed-clothes  and  sighed 
heavily.  Distinct,  painful  consciousness  had  returned. 

In  a  few  days  he  began  to  grow  stronger,  and  was  able 
to  sit  up ;  and  with  the  return  of  bodily  vigour  came  back 
the  deadly  passions  that  had  agitated  him  on  the  night  of 
his  return  home.  The  man,  he  said,  had  literally  robbed 
him  of  his  money,  (in  fact,  won  it) ;  had  cheated  him  out 
of  every  dollar  of  his  hard-earned  gains,  and  he  woulo 
have  his  life. 

When  hardly  well  enough  to  walk  about,  Warburton 
felt  the  evil  influence  of  his  desire  for  revenge  so  strong, 
as  to  cause  him  to  seek  out  the  individual  who,  he  con 
ceived,  had  wronged  him,  by  winning  from  him,  or  cheat 
ing  him  out  of  his  money.  They  met  in  one  of  the  vile 
places  in  Cincinnati,  where  vice  loves  to  do  her  dark  work 
in  secret.  Truly  are  they  called  hells,  for  there  the  love 
of  evil  and  hatred  of  the  neighbour  prompt  to  action. 
Every  malignant  passion  in  the  heart  of  Warburton  was 
roused  into  full  vigour,  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  face 
of  his  former  associate.  Instantly  he  grasped  his  knife, 
and  with  a  yell  of  fiendish  exultation  sprang  towards  him, 
like  some  savage  beast  eager  for  his  prey.  The  other 
gambler  was  a  cool  man,  and  hard  to  throw  off  of  his 
guard.  His  first  movement  was  to  knock  Warburton 
down,  then  drawing  his  Spanish  knife,  he  waited  calmly 
and  firmly  for  his  enemy  to  rise.  Blind  with  passion, 
Warburton  sprang  to  his  feet  and  rushed  upon  the  other, 
who  received  him  upon  the  point  of  his  knife,  which  en 
tered  deep  into  the  abdomen.  At  the  same  instant,  War- 
burton's  knife  was  plunged  into  the  heart  of  his  adversary, 
who  staggered  off  from  its  point,  reeled  for  a  few  seconds 
about  the  room,  and  then  fell  heavily  upon  the  floor.  He 
was  dead  before  the  cool  spectators  of  the  horrid  scene 
could  raise  him  up. 

From  loss  of  blood  Warburton  soon  fainted,  and  wnen 
he  came  to  himself,  he  found  that  he  had  been  conveyed 
to  his  home,  and  that  his  weeping  wife  stood  over  him. 
There  were  also  others  in  the  room,  and  he  soon  learned 
that  he  was  to  be  conveyed,  even  in  the  condition  he  was 
then  in,  to  prison,  to  await  his  trial  for  murder. 

In  vain  did  his  poor  heart- stricken  wife  plead  that  he 


480  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

might  be  left  there  until  he  recovered,  or  even  until  his 
"wound  was  dressed ;  but  she  pleaded  in  vain.  On  a  litter, 
faint  from  loss  of  blood,  and  groaning  with  pain,  he  was 
carried  off  to  prison.  By  his  side  walked  her  whom  no 
ill  treatment  or  neglect  could  estrange. 

Three  months  he  was  kept  in  jail,  attended  daily  by  his 
uncomplaining  wife,  who  supported  herself  and  little  boy, 
with  her  own  hands,  sparing  much  for  her  husband's  com 
fort.  The  wound  had  not  proved  very  dangerous,  and 
long  before  his  trial  came  on,  he  was  as  well  as  ever. 

The  day  of  trial  at  length  came,  and  Mrs.  Warburton 
found  that  it  required  her  strongest  efforts  to  keep  suffi 
ciently  composed  to  comprehend  the  true  nature  and  bear 
ing  of  all  the  legal  proceedings.  Never  in  her  life  before 
had  she  been  in  a  court  of  justice,  and  the  bare  idea  of 
being  in  that,  to  her  awful,  place,  stunned  at  first  all  her 
perceptions  ;  especially  as  she  was  there  under  circum 
stances  of  such  deep  and  peculiar  interest. 

Next  to  her  husband,  in  the  bar,  did  this  suffering  woman 
take  her  place:  and  that  husband  arraigned  before  his 
country's  tribunal  for  the  highest  crime — murder !  How 
little  did  she  dream  of  such  an  awful  situation,  years  be 
fore,  when  a  gay,  thoughtless,  innocent  girl,  she  gave  up 
in  maiden  confidence,  and  with  deep  joy,  her  affections  to 
that  husband.  Passing  on  step  by  step,  in  misery's  paths, 
she  had  at  last  reached  a  point,  the  bare  idea  of  which, 
had  it  been  entertained  as  possible  for  a  moment,  would 
have  almost  extinguished  life.  Now,  her  deep  interest  in 
that  husband  who  had  abused  her  confidence,  and  almost 
extinguished  hope  in  her  bosom,  kept  her  up,  and  enabled 
her  to  watch  with  unwavering  attention  every  minute 
proceeding. 

After  the  indictment  was  read,  and  the  State's  Attorney, 
in  a  comprehensive  manner,  had  stated  the  distinct  fea 
tures  of  the  case,  which  he  pledged  himself  to  prove  by 
competent  witnesses,  poor  Mrs.  Warburton  became  sick 
and  faint.  A  clearer  case  of  deliberate  murder  could  not, 
it  seemed  to  her,  be  made  out.  Still,  she  was  sure  there 
must  be  palliating  circumstances,  and  longed  to  be  per 
mitted  to  rise  and  state  her  impressions  of  the  case.  Once 
she  did  start  to  her  feet,  but  a  right  consciousness  returned 
before  she  had  uttered  a  word.  Shrinking  into  her  seat 


THE     MAIDENS     ERROR.  481 

again,  she  watched  with  a  pale  face  and  eager  look,  the 
course  of  the  proceedings. 

Witness  after  witness  was  called  on  the  part  of  the  state, 
each  testifying  distinctly  the  fact  of  Warburton's  attack 
upon  the  murdered  man,  and  his  threat  to  take  his  life. 
Hope  seemed  utterly  to  fail  from  the  heart  of  the  poor 
wife,  when  the  testimony  on  the  part  of  the  prosecution 
closed.  But  now  came  the  time  for  the  examination  of 
witnesses  in  favour  of  the  prisoner.  Soon  Mrs.  Warbur- 
ton  was  seen  upon  her  feet,  bending  over  towards  the 
witness'  stand,  and  eagerly  devouring  each  word.  Rapid 
changes  would  pass  over  her  countenance,  as  she  compre 
hended,  with  a  woman's  quickness  of  perception,  rendered 
acute  by  strong  interest,  the  bearing  which  the  evidence 
would  have  upon  the  case.  Now  her  eye  would  flash 
with  interest  and  her  face  become  flushed — and  now  her 
cheek  would  pale,  and  her  form  seem  to  shrink  into  half 
its  dimensions.  Oh  !  who  can  imagine  one  thousandth 
part  of  all  her  sufferings  on  that  awful  occasion  1  When, 
finally,  the  case  was  given  to  the  jury,  and  after  waiting 
hour  after  hour  at  the  court-house,  to  hear  the  decision, 
she  had  to  go  home  long  after  dark,  in  despair  of  knowing 
the  result  before  morning,  it  seemed  hardly  possible  that 
she  could  pass  through  that  night  and  retain  her  senses. 
She  did  not  sleep  through  the  night's  long  watches — how 
could  she  sleep  1  Hours  before  the  court  assembled,  she 
was  at  the  court-house,  waiting  to  know  the  fate  of  one, 
who  now,  in  his  fearful  extremity,  seemed  dearer  to  her 
than  ever.  Slowly  passed  the  lingering  minutes,  and  at 
length  ten  o'clock  came.  The  court-room  was  filled  to 
suffocation,  but  through  the  dense  crowd  she  made  her 
way,  and  took  her  place  beside  her  anxious  husband.  The 
court  opened,  and  the  foreman  of  the  jury  came  forward 
to  read  the  verdict.  Many  an  eye  sought  with  eager  cu 
riosity,  or  strong  interest,  the  face  of  the  wife.  Its  calm 
ness  was  strange  and  awful.  All  anxiety,  all  deep  interest 
had  left  it,  and  as  she  turned  her  eye  upon  the  foreman, 
none  could  read  the  slightest  exhibition  of  emotion. 
"  GUILTY  OF  MURDER  IN  THE  SECOND  DEGREE  !"  Quick  as 
thought  a  hundred  eyes  again  sought  the  face  of  Mrs. 
Warburton.  It  was  pale  as  ashes,  and  her  insensible  form 

59 


482  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

was  gently  reclining  upon  the  arm  of  her  husband,  which 
had  been  extended  to  save  her  from  falling. 

When  recollection  returned,  she  was  lying  upon  her  own 
bed,  in  her  own  chamber,  with  her  little  boy  crying  by 
her  side.  Those  who  had,  from  humane  feelings,  con 
veyed  her  home,  suffered  the  dictates  of  humanity  to  die 
in  their  bosoms  ere  her  consciousness  returned ;  and  thus 
she  was  left,  insensible,  with  no  companion  but  her  child. 

In  due  course,  Warburton  was  sentenced  to  eight  years 
imprisonment,  the  first  three  years  to  be  passed  in  solitary 
confinement.  During  the  first  term,  no  person  was  to  be 
allowed  to  visit  him.  The  knowledge  of  such  a  sentence 
was  a  dreadful  blow  to  Mrs.  Warburton.  She  parted 
from  him  in  the  court-room,  on  the  day  of  his  sentence, 
and  for  three  long,  weary  years,  her  eyes  saw  him  not 
again. 

But  a  short  time  after  the  imprisonment  of  Warburton, 
another  babe  came  into  the  world  to  share  the  misery  of 
her  whose  happiness  he  had,  in  all  his  actions,  so  little 
regarded.  When  able  again  to  go  about,  and  count  up 
her  store,  Mrs.  Warburton  found  that  she  had  little  left 
her  beyond  a  willing  heart  to  labour  for  her  children.  It 
would  have  been  some  comfort  to  her  if  she  had  been  per 
mitted  to  visit  her  husband,  but  this  the  law  forbade. 

"  Despair  is  never  quite  despair,"  and  once  more  in  her 
life  did  Mrs.  Warburton  prove  this.  The  certainty  that 
there  could  be  no  further  dependence  upon  her  husband, 
led  her  to  repose  more  confidently  in  her  own  resources, 
for  a  living,  and  they  did  not  fail  her.  She  had  long  since 
found  out  that  our  necessities  cost  much  less  than  our 
superfluities,  and  therefore  she  did  not  sit  down  in  idle 
despondency.  Early  in  the  morning  and  late  at  night  was 
she  found  diligently  employed,  and  though  her  compen 
sation  was  not  great,  it  was  enough  to  supply  her  real 
wants. 

For  two  years  had  she  supported  thus  with  her  own 
hands  herself  and  children.  The  oldest  was  now  a  smart 
little  fellow  of  five  years,  and  the  youngest  a  fair-haired 
girl  of  some  two  summers.  Thus  far  had  she  kept  them 
around  her;  but  sickness  at  last  came.  Nature  could  not 
always  sustain  the  heavy  demands  made  upon  her,  and  at 
last  sunk  under  them. 


THE     MAIDENS     ERROR.  4S3 

There  are  many  more  cases  of  extreme  suffering  in  this 
country  than  persons  are  generally  willing  to  believe. 
These  extreme  cases  are  among  those  whose  peculiar 
feelings  will  not  allow  of  their  making  known  their  real 
condition.  They  are  such  as  were  once  members  of  some 
social  circle,  far  removed  indeed  from  the  apparent 
Chances  of  poverty.  Their  shrinking  pride,  their  yearning 
desire  for  independence  clings  closer  and"  closer  to  them, 
and  operates  more  and  more  powerfully,  as  they  sink  lower 
and  lower,  from  uncontrollable  causes,  into  the  vale  of 
want  and  destitution.  Beggars  with  no  feelings,  and  no 
claims  beyond  those  of  idleness  and  intemperance,  thrust 
themselves  forward,  and  consume  the  bread  of  charity, 
that  should  go  to  nourish  the  widow  and  the  orphan,  who 
suffer  daily  and  nightly,  rather  than  ask  for  aid. 

One  to  whom  the  idea  of  eating  the  bread  of  charity 
had  ever  been  a  painful  and  revolting  one,  was  Mrs.  War- 
burton.  So  long  as  she  was  able,  she  had  earned  with 
untiring  industry,  the  food  that  nourished  her  children. 
But  close  confinement,  insufficient  nourishment,  labour 
beyond  her  strength,  and  above  all,  a  wounded  spirit,  at 
last  completed  the  undermining  work,  which  threw  down 
the  tottering  and  feeble  health  that  had  long  kept  her  at 
her  duties. 

It  was  mid-winter  when  she  was  severely  attacked  by 
a  bilious-pleurisy.  For  some  weeks  she  had  drooped 
about,  hardly  able  to  perform  half  her  wonted  labour — 
most  of  that  time  suffering  from  a  hard  cough  and  distress 
ing  pain  in  the  side,  which  was  augmented  almost  to 
agony  while  bending  steadily,  and  for  hours  over  her 
work.  Taking,  as  it  did,  all  that  she  could  earn  to  keep 
herself  and  children  in  comfort  during  the  winter,  she  had 
nothing  laid  up  for  a  time  of  more  pressing  need ;  and,  as 
for  the  last  few  weeks,  she  had  earned  so  little  as  to  have 
barely  enough  for  necessaries,  when  helplessness  came, 
she  was  in  utter  destitution,  Her  wood  was  just  out,  ex 
cept  a  few  hard,  knotted  logs ;  her  flour  was  out,  and  her 
money  gone.  When  she  could  no  longer  sit  up,  she  sent 
her  little  boy  for  a  physician,  who  bled  her,  and  left  her 
some  powerful  medicines.  The  first  gave  temporary  re 
lief,  and  the  latter  reduced  her  to  a  state  of  great  bodily 
and  mental  weakness.  He  did  not  call  in  again  until  the 


THE      MAIDENS      ERROR. 

second  day,  when  he  found  the  children  both  in  bed  with 
their  mother,  who  was  suffering  greatly  from  a  return  of 
the  pain  in  her  side.  The  room  was  chilly,  for  there  was 
no  fire,  and  it  was  intensely  cold  without,  and  the  ground 
covered  with  a  deep  snow.  He  again  bled  her,  which 
produced  immediate  relief,  and  learning  that  she  had  no 
wood,  called  in  at  the  next  door,  where  lived  a  wealthy 
family,  and  stated  the  condition  of  their  poor  neighbour 
A  child  of  six  years  old  stood  by  his  mother  while  the 
physician  was  speaking.  The  lady  seemed  much  affected 
when  told  of  the  sufferings  of  the  poor  woman,  politely 
thanked  the  physician  for  making  her  acquainted  with  the 
fact,  and  promised  immediate  attention. 

That  evening  there  was  to  be  at  this  house  a  large  party. 
Extra  servants  had  been  employed  that  day,  and  all  was 
bustle  and  preparation. 

"  Sarah,"  called  the  lady,  a  few  minutes  after,  to  her 

housekeeper — "  Sarah,  Dr.  H was  here  just  now,  and 

said  that  the  poor  woman  who  lives  next  door  is  sick  and 
out  of  fuel.  Tell  John  to  take  her  in  an  armful  of  wood, 
and  do  you  just  step  in  and  see  what  more  she  is  in  want 
of." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  responds  Sarah,  and  muttering  to  her 
self  some  dissatisfaction  at  the  order,  descends  to  the 
kitchen,  and  addresses  a  sable  man-servant,  and  kind  of 
doer-of-all-work-in-general,  in  doors  and  out, 

"John,  Mrs. says  you  must  take  an  armful  of 

wood  in  to  Mrs.  Warrington ;  I  believe  that  is  the  woman's 
name  who  lives  next  door." 

"  Who  1  de  woman  whose  husband  in  de  Penetentrary  ?" 

"  Yes,  that's  the  one,  John." 

"  Don't  love  to  meddle  wid  dem  guess  sort  of  folks,  Miss 
Sarah.  'Druder  not  be  gwine  in  dere,"  responds  the 
black,  with  a  broad  grin  at  his  own  humour. 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  whether  you  do  or  not,"  responds 
Sarah,  and  glides  swiftly  away,  satisfied  to  do  one  part 
of  her  order  and  forget  the  other,  which  related  to  her 

going  in  to  see  the  poor  woman  herself.   Mrs. shifted 

off  the  duty  on  her  housekeeper,  and  she  contented  herself 
by  forgetting  it. 

Little  William,  who  was  present  with  his  mother  when 
the  doctor  called,  was,  like  all  childi  en,  a  true  republican, 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.          485 

and  had  often  played  with  the  child  of  the  sick  woman, 
fie  had  seen  his  little  playmate  but  a  few  times  since  the 
cold  weather  set  in ;  but  had  all  his  sympathies  aroused, 
at  the  doctor's  recital.  Being  rather  more  suspicious  of 
the  housekeeper  than  his  mother,  and  no  doubt  for  good 
reasons  best  known  to  himself,  he  followed  on  to  the 
kitchen,  and  was  an  ear-witness  to  what  passed  between 
John  and  the  sub-mistress  of  the  mansion. 

"  Come,  John,  now  that 's  a  good  fellow,"  said  he  to  the 
negro,  after  the  housekeeper  had  retired,  "  take  in  some 
wood  to  poor  Mrs.  Warburton." 

"  'Fraid,  Massa  Billy,  'deed.  'Fraid  of  penetentiary — 
ha!  ha!!  ha!!!" 

"  She  can't  help  that,  though,  John.  So  come  along, 
and  take  the  wood  in." 

"  'Fraid,  i'deed,  Massa  Billy." 

"  Well,  if  you  don't,  I  '11  take  it  in  myself,  and  dirty  all 
my  clothes,  and  then  somebody  will  find  it  out,  without 
my  turning  tell-tale." 

John  grinned  a  broad  smile,  and  forthwith,  finding  him 
self  outwitted,  carried  in  the  wood,  and  left  it  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  floor,  without  saying  a  word. 

Towards  evening,  just  before  the  company  assembled, 
little  William,  not  at  all  disposed  to  forget,  as  every  one 
else  had  done,  the  poor  sufferers  next  door,  went  to  the 
housekeeper's  room,  where  she  was  busy  as  a  bee  with 
preparations  for  the  party,  and  stationed  himself  in  the 
door,  accosted  her  with — 

"  Miss  Sarah,  have  you  been  in  to  see  Mrs.  Warburton. 
as  ma  told  you,  to-day  ?' 

"  That 's  no  concern  of  yours,  Mr.  Inquisitive." 

"  But  I  'd  just  like  to  know,  Miss  Sarah ;  'cause  I  'm 
going  in  myself,  if  you  hav'nt  been." 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  I  have  not  paid  attention  to  wha 
your  ma  said  ?  I  know  my  own  business,  without  instruc 
tion  from  you." 

"  Well,  I  don't  believe  you  've  been  in,  so  I  don't,  that's 
all ;  and  if  you  don't  say  yes  or  no  at  once,  why,  you  see, 
I  '11  go  right  in  myself." 

"  Well  (coaxingly)  never  mind,  Billy,  I  haint  been  in, 
I  've  been  so  busy ;  but  just  wait  a  little  bit,  and  I  '11  go 
There 's  no  use  of  your  going ;  you  can't  do  nothing." 


486  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

"  I  know  that,  Miss  Sarah,  and  that  *s  why  I  want  you 
to  go  in.  But  if  you  don't  go  in,  I  will,  so  there,  now  !" 

"  Well,  just  wait  a  little  bit,  and  I  '11  go." 

The  child,  but  half  satisfied,  slowly  went  away,  but  lin 
gered  about  the  passages  to  watch  the  housekeeper. 
Night,  however,  came  on,  and  he  had  not  seen  her  going. 
All  were  now  busy  lighting  up,  and  making  the  more  im 
mediate  and  active  preparations  for  the  reception  of  com 
pany,  when  he  met  her  in  the  hall,  and  to  his,  "  Look  here, 
I  say,  Miss  Sarah,"  she  hurried  past  him  unheeding. 

The  company  at  last  assembled,  and  the  hours  had 
passed  away  until  it  was  nine  o'clock.  Without,  all  was 
cold,  bleak,  and  cheerless.  Within,  there  was  the  perfec 
tion  of  comfort. 

Little  William  had  been  absent  for  some  time,  but  no 
one  missed  him.  Just  as  a  large  company  were  engaged 
in  the  various  ways  of  passing  time,  dancing,  chatting, 
and  partaking  of  refreshments,  the  room  door  opened,  and 
in  came  Master  Billy,  dragging  in  by  the  hand,  a  little 
barefoot  fellow  about  his  own  age,  with  nothing  on  but  a 
clean,  well-patched  shirt,  and  a  pair  of  linen  trowsers. 
Without  heeding  the  company,  he  pulled  him  up  to  the 
glowing  grate,  and  in  the  fulness  of  his  young  benevolent 
heart,  cried  out, 

"  Here 's  fire,  Charley  !  Warm  yourself,  old  fellow ! 
Hurrah  !  I  guess  I  've  fixed  Miss  Sarah  now."  And  the 
little  fellow  clapped  his  hands  as  innocently  and  as  grace 
fully,  as  if  there  had  been  no  one  in  the  room  but  himself 
and  Charley. 

All  was  agreeable  and  curious  confusion  in  a  few  mi 
nutes,  and  scores  crowded  around  the  poor  child  with  a 
lively  interest,  who,  an  hour  before  would  have  passed  him 
in  the  street  unnoticed. 

"  Why,  Willy !  what  does  all  this  mean  ?"  exclaimed 
the  father,  after  something  like  order  had  been  restored. 

"  Why,  pa,  you  see,  this  is  Charley  Warburton,"  began 
the  little  fellow,  holding  the  astonished  Charley  by  the 
hand,  and  presenting  him  quite  ceremoniously  to  his  father. 

"  Doctor  H came  here  to-day,  and  told  ma  that  his 

mother  was  sick  next  door,  and  that  they  had  no  wood. 
So  ma  tells  Sarah  to  send  John  in  with  some  wood,  and 
to  go  in  herself  and  see  if  they  wanted  anything.  So  Sarah 


THE     MAIDENS     ERROR.  487 

foes  and  tells  John  to  go  and  take  some  wood  in.  But 
ohn  he  wa'nt  going  to  go,  till  I  told  him  that  if  he  didn't 
go  I  would,  and  if  I  went  to  carrying  in  wood,  I'd  dirty 
all  my  clothes,  and  then  somebody  would  want  to  know 
the  reason.  So  John  he  carried  in  some  wood.  Then  I 
watched  Sarah,  but  she  didn't  go  in.  So  I  told  her  about 
it.  And  then  she  promised,  but  didn't  go.  I  told  her 
again,  and  she  promised,  but  didn't  go.  I  waited  and 
waited  until  night,  and  still  Sarah  didn't  go  in.  Then  you 
see,  awhile  ago  I  slipped  out  the  front  door,  and  tried  to 
go  in  to  Mrs.  Warburton's.  But  it  was  all  so  dark  there, 
that  I  couldn't  see  anybody;  and  when  I  called  'Charley,' 
here,  his  mother  said,  softly,  '  who  's  there,'  and  I  said 
'  it 's  only  little  Willy.  Ma  wants  to  know  if  you  don't 
want  nothing.'  «  Oh,  it 's  little  Willy— it 's  little  Willy  !' 
says  Charley,  and  he  jumps  on  the  floor,  and  then  we  both 
came  in  here.  O !  it 's  so  dark  and  cold  in  there — do  pa 
go  in,  and  make  John  build  them  a  fire." 

During   the  child's  innocent  but  feeling  recital,  more 

than  one  eye  filled  with  tears.     Mrs. hung  down  her 

head  for  a  moment,  in  silent  upbraidings  of  heart,  for  hav 
ing  consigned  a  work  of  charity  to  neglectful  and  unfeel 
ing  servants.  Then  taking  her  child  in  her  arms,  she 
hugged  him  to  her  bosom,  and  said, 

"  Bless  you,  bless  you,  my  boy  !  That  innocent  heart 
has  taught  your  mother  a  lesson  she  will  not  soon  forget." 

The  father  felt  prouder  of  his  son  than  he  had  ever  felt, 
and  there  were  few  present  who  did  not  almost  wish  him 

their  own.     Little  Charley  was  asked  by  Mr. if  he 

was  hungry,  on  observing  him  wistfully  eyeing  a  piece 
of  cake. 

"  We  haint  had  nothin'  to  eat  all  day,  sir,  none  of  us." 

"  And  why  not,  my  little  man  ?"  asked  Mr. in  a 

voice  of  assumed  calmness. 

"  'Cause,  sir,  we  haint  got  nothin'  to  eat  in  the  house. 
Mother  always  had  good  things  for  us  till  she  got  sick, 
and  now  we  are  all  hungry,  and  haint  got  nothin'  to  eat." 

"  Here,  Sarah,  (to  the  housekeeper,  who  came  in  at  the 
moment)  —  no,  not  you,  either — do  you,  Emma,  (to  his 
wife,)  give  this  hungry  child  some  nourishing  food  with 
your  own  hands.  He  has  a  claim  on  you,  for  the  sake  of 
our  little  Willy." 


483  THE     MAIDENS      ERROR. 

Mrs. was  not  slow  in  relieving  Charley's  wants 

and  then,  after  excusing  herself  to  the  company,  she  visited, 
with  John  and  Sarah,  the  humble,  uncomplaining  child  of 
humanity,  who  had  been  suffering,  so  painfully,  in  the  next 
house  to  her  comfortable  dwelling. 

The  light  carried  by  John  revealed,  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  the  armful  of  wood,  in  large  logs,  almost  impos 
sible  to  kindle,  which  the  servant  had  thrown  down  there 

without  a  word,  or  an  offer  to  make  a  fire.     Mrs. 's 

heart  smote  her  when  she  saw  this  evidence  of  her  neglect 
of  true  charity.  Enveloped  in  the  bed-clothes,  she  found 
Mrs.  Warburton  and  her  little  child,  the  former  suffering 
from  pain  and  fever,  and  the  latter  asleep,  with  tears  glis 
tening  on  her  eyelashes.  The  room  was  so  cold  that  it 
sent  chills  all  over  her,  as  she  had  come  in  without  throw 
ing  a  shawl  around  her  shoulders. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  so  sick,  and  everything  around 
vou  so  cold  and  comfortless,"  she  said,  addressing  Mrs. 
Warburton. 

"  I  don't  feel  so  very  sick,  ma'am,  only  when  I  try  to 
sit  up,  I  grow  so  faint,  and  have  to  lie  down  again.  If 
my  little  things  had  anything  to  eat,  I  wouldn't  mind  it 
much." 

Just  then,  aroused  by  the  voice  of  her  mother,  the  little 
girl  awoke,  and  began  moaning  and  crying.  She  could 
not  speak  plain,  and  her  "  bed  and  mik,  mamma" — "  O, 
mamma,  bed  and  mik,"  thrilled  every  heart-string  of  Mrs. 

,  who  had  never  before  in  her  life  witnessed  the  keen 

distress  of  a  mother  while  her  child  asked  in  vain  for 
bread.  She  drew  the  child  out  of  bed,  and  kissing  it, 
handed  it  to  Sarah,  whose  feelings  were  also  touched,  and 
told  her  to  take  the  little  thing  into  her  house,  and  give 
it  to  the  nurse,  with  directions  to  feed  it,  and  then  come 
back. 

By  this  time,  John,  rather  more  active  than  usual,  had 
kindled  a  fire,  the  genial  warmth  of  which  began  already 
to  soften  the  keen  air  of  the  room.  Some  warm  drinks 

•were  prepared  for  Mrs.  Warburton ;  and  Mrs. had 

the  satisfaction  to  see  her,  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour, 
sink  away  into  a  sweet  and  refreshing  slumber.  On 
glancing  around  the  room,  she  was  gratified,  and  some 
what  surprised,  to  see  everything,  though  plain  and  scanty, 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.  4S9 

exhibiting  the  utmost  order  and  cleanliness.  The  uncar- 
peted  floor  was  spotless,  and  the  single  pine  table  as  white 
as  hands  could  make  it.  "  How  much  am  I  to  blame," 
\vas  her  inward  thought,  "  for  having  so  neglected  this 
poor  woman  in  her  distress  and  in  her  poverty !" 

On  returning  to  her  company,  and  giving  a  history  of 

the  scene  she  had  just  witnessed,  the  general  feeling  of 

asympathy  prompted  immediate  measures  for  relief,  and  a 

very  handsome  sum  was  placed  in  the  hands  of  Mrs. , 

by  the  gentlemen  and  ladies  present,  for  the  use  of  Mrs. 
Warburton.  Rarely  does  a  social  company  retire  with 
each  individual  of  it  so  satisfied  in  heart  as  did  the  com 
pany  assembled  at  Mrs. 's,  on  that  evening.  Truly 

could  they  say,  "It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to 
receive." 

The  incident  just  related,  possessing  a  kind  of  romantic 
interest,  soon  became  noised  about  from  family  to  family, 
and  for  awhile  it  was  fashionable  to  minister  to  the  wants 
of  Mrs.  Warburton — whose  health  continued  very  deli 
cate — and  to  her  young  family.  But  a  few  months  passed 
away,  and  then  one  after  another  ceased  to  remember  or 

care  for  her.  Even  Mrs. ,  the  mother  of  little  Billy, 

began  to  grow  weary  of  charity  long  continued,  and  to 
feel  that  it  was  a  burdensome  task  to  be  every  day  or  two 
obliged  to  call  in  or  inquire  after  the  poor  invalid.  Fi 
nally,  she  dismissed  the  subject  from  her  mind,  and  left 
Mrs.  Warburton  to  the  tender  mercies  of  Sarah,  the  house 
keeper. 

From  a  state  of  deep  despondence  to  one  of  hope,  had 
Mrs.  Warburton  been  raised,  by  the  timely  aid  afforded 
through  the  persevering  interference  of  the  little  playmate 
of  her  son.  But  she  soon  began  to  perceive,  after  a  time, 
that  the  charity  was  only  spasmodic,  and  entered  into 
without  a  real  consideration  of  her  peculiar  case.  The 
money  given  her  was  the  best  assistance  that  could  have 
been  rendered,  for  with  this  she  obtained  a  supply  of  wood, 
flour,  meal,  potatoes,  and  some  warm  clothing  for  her  lit 
tle  ones.  But  this  would  not  last  always,  and  the  multi 
tude  of  little  nice  things  sent  from  this  one  and  that,  were 
of  but  little  service. 

The  month  of  March,  so  trying  to  a  weak  and  shattered 
constitution,  found  her  just  well  enough  to  venture  out  to 

60 


490  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

seek  for  employment  at  her  old  business  of  cigar-making. 
She  readily  obtained  work,  and  again  sat  down  to  earn 
for  herself  and  children,  the  bread  that  should  nourish 
them.  But  she  was  soon  made  to  feel  keenly  that  her 
health  was  not  as  it  had  been.  A  severe  pain  in  the  side 
was  her  daily  companion,  and  she  had  to  toil  on,  often 
sick  and  faint,  from  daylight  until  long  after  others  had 
sought  the  grateful  repose  of  their  pillows.  Painfully  alive 
to  a  sense  of  dependence,  she  was  ready  at  any  time  to 
work  beyond  her  strength  rather  than  to  eat  the  bread  of 
charity.  This  kept  her  steadily  bending  over  her  work, 
until  nature  again  became  exhausted,  and  she  was  forced, 
from  direct  debility,  to  suspend  her  labours  for  at  least 
the  half  of  every  day.  As  April  came  in,  with  an  occa 
sional  warm  day,  her  appetite  gradually  left  her,  and  she 
began  to  experience  a  loathing  of  food.  Weakness,  head 
aches,  and  other  painful  warnings  of  nature,  were  the 
consequences.  Her  earnings  were  now  so  small,  that  she 
with  difficulty  procured  enough  of  food  for  her  children. 

She  knew  that  if  she  would  let  Mrs.  know  her 

pressing  destitution,  food  and  other  necessaries  would  be 
supplied ;  but  she  shrank  from  telling  her  wants.  Find 
ing,  however,  that  her  strength  continued  to  fail,  until  she 
was  unable  to  sit  up  but  for  a  few  hours  at  a  time,  and 
that,  in  consequence  of  her  extreme  weakness,  the  nausea 
produced  by  the  tobacco  was  so  great,  as  to  render  it 
almost  impossible  for  her  to  work  in  it,  she  made  up  her 

mind  to  let  her  boy  go  in  to  Mrs. ,  with  a  request  to 

send  her  some  little  thing  that  she  could  eat,  in  hopes  that 
something  from  her  table  might  provoke  an  appetite. 

Mrs. was  sitting  at  her  dinner-table,  which  was 

covered  with  the  luxuries  of  the  season,  when  little 
Charley  came  into  the  room  and  handed  in  his  poor  mo 
ther's  request. 

"Please,  ma'am, mother  says  will  you  be  so  good  as  to 
send  her  some  little  thing  that  she  could  eat.  She  has  no 
appetite,  and  not  eatin'  makes  her  so  weak." 

"  Here  's  some  pie,  Charley,"  struck  in  little  Billy.  "  It's 
good,  I  tell  you  !  Eat  it  now ;  and  ma,  do  send  in  Char 
ley's  mother  a  piece,  too :  I  know  she  '11  like  it." 

But  Billy  and  his  mother  did  not  agree  in  this.  The 
latter  thought  a  little  sago  would  be  much  better.  So 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.          491 

she  gave  Charley  a  paper  in  which  were  a  few  spoonfuls 
of  sago. 

"  Here  is  some  sago,  mother,"  said  Charley,  on  his  re 
turn,  "  Mrs. says  it  will  do  you  good." 

Now  it  so  happened  that,  from  a  child,  she  had  never 
liked  sago.  There  was  something  in  it  so  insipid  to  her, 
that  she  had  never  felt  an  inclination  to  more  than  taste 
t.  Particularly  now  did  her  stomach  loathe  it.  But, 
even  if  she  had  felt  an  inclination  to  taste  the  sago,  she 
had  not,  at  the  time,  any  way  to  prepare  it  so  as  to  make 
it  palatable.  She  did  not,  however,  at  the  time,  send  for 
anything  else.  She  still  had  some  flour  and  potatoes,  and 
a  little  change  to  buy  milk,  and  on  these  her  children  fared 
very  well.  Healthy  food  does  not  cost  a  great  deal  in 
this  country,  and  Mrs.  Warburton  had  long  before  learned 
to  husband  well  her  resources. 

On  the  next  morning  she  tried  to  get  up,  but  fainted 
away  on  the  floor.  Her  children  were  still  asleep,  and 
were  not  even  awakened  by  her  fall.  It  was  some  time 
before  she  recovered  sufficiently  to  crawl  upon  the  bed ; 
and  there  she  lay,  almost  incapable  of  thought  or  motion, 
for  hours.  As  feeble  nature  reacted  again,  and  she  was 
able  to  think  over  her  situation,  she  made  up  her  mind  to 

send  in  her  little  boy  again  to  Mrs. ,  with  an  apology 

for  not  using  the  sago,  and  request  her  to  give  her  some 
little  thing  from  her  table — anything  at  all  that  would  be 
likely,  as  she  said,  "  to  put  a  taste  in  her  mouth,"  and 
induce  an  appetite  for  food.  The  child  delivered  the  mes 
sage  in  the  best  way  he  knew  how,  but  some  how  or  other 

it  offended  the  ear  of  Mrs. ,  who  had  begun  to  be 

tired  of  what  she  was  pleased  to  call  the  importunities  of 
Mrs.  Warburton ;  though,  in  fact,  she  had  never  before 
even  hinted  that  she  was  in  want  of  anything.  The  truth 
was,  Sarah,  the  housekeeper,  had  heard  something  from 
somebody,  about  Mrs.  Warburton,  and  had  been  relating 

the  puerile  scandal  to  Mrs. ,  who,  instead  of  opposing 

the  tattling  propensity  in  her  servant,  encouraged  it,  by 
lending  to  her  silly  stories  an  attentive  ear.  But  the  story 
was  false,  from  beginning  to  end,  as  are  nearly  all  the 
idle  rumours  which  are  constantly  circulating  from  one 
family  to  another,  through  the  medium  of  servants. 

"  How  did  she  do,"  she  had  just  been  saying  to  Sarah, 


492  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

*  before  I  befriended  her  ?  It  is  a  downright  imposition 
upon  my  good -nature,  and  I  have  no  notion  of  encour 
aging  idleness." 

"  The  fact  is,  ma'am,"  chimed  in  the  maid,  "  these  here 
poor  people,  when  you  once  help  'em,  think  you  must  be 
a'ways  at  it;  they  find  it  so  much  easier  to  beg  than 
work." 

Just  at  this  stage  of  conversation,  the  child  timidly  pre 
ferred  the  humble  and  moderate  request  of  his  sick  mo 
ther  ;  a  request  that  should  have  thrilled  the  heart  of  any 
one  possessing  a  single  human  sympathy.  But  it  came  at 
the  wrong  moment.  The  evil  of  self-love  was  active  in 

the  heart  of  Mrs. ,  and  all  love  of  the  neighbour  was 

for  the  time  extinguished.  She  cast  upon  the  child  a  look 
so  forbidding  that  the  little  fellow  turned  involuntarily 
to  go. 

"  Here,  Sarah,"  said  she,  in  a  half-angry  tone,  "  send 
Mrs.  Warburton  a  dried  herring.  Perhaps  that  will  'put 
a  taste  in  her  mouth.' " 

And  a  herring  was  sent ! 

"  It 's  a  pretty  pass,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Sarah,  as  the 
child  closed  the  door,  "  when  beggars  become  choosers  !" 

Only  half  satisfied  with  herself,  Mrs. turned  away 

and  made  no  reply.  How  differently  did  she  feel  on  the 
night,  when,  with  her  own  hands,  she  ministered  to  the 
wants  of  this  same  suffering  child  of  humanity!  Then  her 
heart,  though  melted  even  to  tears,  felt  a  bounding  glad 
ness,  from  the  consciousness  of  having  relieved  the  suf 
fering.  Now  it  was  heavy  and  sad  in  her  bosom,  and  she 
could  not  hush  the  whispers  of  an  accusing  conscience. 

Little  Charley  carried  home  the  herring,  and  laid  it  on 
the  bed  before  his  sick  mother.  His  own  little  heart  was 

full,  for  he  could  not  mistake  the  manner  of  Mrs. for 

kindness.  Mrs.  Warburton  looked  at  the  uninviting  food, 
and  turned  her  head  away.  After  awhile,  it  did  seem  to 
her  as  if  the  fish  would  taste  good  to  her,  and  she  raised 
herself  up  with  an  effort,  and  breaking  off  a  small  piece, 
put  it  languidly  to  her, lips.  The  morsel  thrilled  upon  the 
nerve  of  taste,  and  she  ate  the  greater  part  of  it  with  a 
relish  she  had  not  .known  for  many  weeks. 

In  the  mean  time  the  heart  of  Mrs. smote  her  so 

severely,  when  all  at  once  she  remembered  having  lost 


THE'  MAIDEN'S    ERROR.  493 

her  appetite  after  a  spell  of  sickness,  and  the  difficulty 
with  which  she  regained  it ; — how  during  the  day,  nothing 
could  tempt  her  to  eat,  while  all  night  long  she  would  dream 
of  rich  banquets,  of  which  she  eagerly  desired  to  partake, 
but  which  changed  to  tasteless  morsels,  when  she  lifted 
the  inviting  food  to  her  lips.  For  a  time  she  strove  against 
her  feelings,  but  at  last  gave  up,  and  ringing  for  the  cook, 
directed  her  to  broil  a  couple  of  thin  slices  of  ham  very 
nicely,  make  a  good  cup  of  tea,  and  a  slice  or  two  of 
toast.  When  this  was  ready,  it  was  sent  in  to  Mrs.  War- 
burton.  It  came  just  in  time,  and  met  the  excited  appetite 
of  the  faint-hearted  invalid.  It  was  like  manna  in  the  wil 
derness,  and  revived  and  refreshed  her  drooping  frame. 

From  this  time  she  gradually  regained  her  appetite  and 
strength ;  and  had  the  gratification  of  being  able  to  earn 
with  her  own  hands  enough  for  the  support  of  her  children. 

This  she  continued  to  do  until  the  expiration  of  the 
solitary  confinement  term  of  her  husband.  How  wearily 
passed  the  long,  long  days  and  nights,  as  the  time  ap 
proached  for  her  again  to  look  upon  the  face  that  had  been 
hid  from  her  sight  for  three  sorrowful  years  !  The  long 
absence  had  only  excited  her  affection  for  him.  Not  as 
the  dead  had  she  thought  of  him,  but  as  of  the  living,  and 
of  the  suffering.  Her  own  deep  poverty,  sickness,  and 
anxious  concern  for  her  children  she  counted  as  nothing 
to  his  lonely  endurance  of  life. 

Some  weeks  before  the  expiration  of  the  first  term  of 
imprisonment,  she  gathered  together  all  her  little  store,  and 
having  sold  many  heavy  articles,  packed  the  rest,  and  had 
them  started  for  Columbus,  the  capital  of  the  state.  She 
then  took  a  deck-passage  for  herself  and  children  in  a 
steamboat  for  Portsmouth,  from  which  place  she  deter 
mined  to  walk,  carrying  her  youngest  child,  a  little  girl  of 
nearly  three  years,  in  her  arms.  I  will  not  linger  with  her, 
nor  trace  her  toilsome  and  lonely  journey  through  strange 
places,  continued  without  a  day's  intermission,  until  she 
at  last  came  in  sight  of  the  long-looked-for  place.  After 
the  time-worn  state-house,  the  next  building  that  met  her 
eye,  was  the  old,  dark-looking  prison,  in  which  was  con 
fined  her  husband.  How  gladly  did  her  eyes  greet  its 
sombre  walls !  It  was  the  dwelling-place  of  one,  for  whom, 
in  all  his  wanderings,  her  heart  retained  its  warm  emo- 


494  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

tions  of  love.  Suddenly,  like  a  parching  wind  of  the  desert, 
came  upon  her  the  thought  that  he  might  be  dead.  For 
three  long  years  she  had  not  been  permitted  to  receive 
tidings  from  him,  and  who  could  tell,  if  in  that  time,  the 
wing  of  death  had  not  o'ershadowed  him?  Trembling, 
weary,  and  sick  at  heart,  she  made  her  way  first  to  the 
prison-gate,  and  there,  to  her  unspeakable  joy,  she  learned 
that  he  still  lived. 

For  many  nights  previous  to  the  day  on  which  permis 
sion  would  be  granted  her  to  see  him,  sleep  had  parted 
from  her  eyelids ;  and  when  the  time  did  come,  she  was 
in  a  high  state  of  mental  excitement.  Morning  slowly 
dawned  upon  her  anxious  eyes,  but  seemed  as  if  it  would 
never  give  place  to  the  broad  daylight.  At  last  the  sun 
came  slowly  up  from  his  bright  chambers  in  the  east.  It 
was  the  day  on  which  she  should  again  see  her  husband ; 
the  long-looked-for,  the  long-hoped-for.  Tremblingly  she 
stole  out,  ere  the  day  was  an  hour  old,  and  ran,  not 
walked,  to  the  gloomy  dwelling-place  of  her  husband. 

For  several  days  previous  she  had  not  been  able  to  keep 
away  from  the  prison,  and  the  keeper,  who  knew  her 
errand,  had  become  much  interested  in  her  case.  He  re 
ceived  her  kindly,  and  made  instant  preparation  for  the 
desired  interview. 

For  three  years  Warburton  had  not  heard  the  music  of 
a  human  voice.  Far  away  from  the  sight  or  sound  of 
his  fellow-prisoners,  he  had  dwelt  alone,  visited  only  by 
the  mute  keeper  who  had  brought  his  daily  food,  or  other 
wise  ministered  to  his  wants.  To  his  earnest  and  oft-re 
peated  inquiries  if  nothing  was  known  of  his  wife  and 
children,  for  whose  welfare  a  yearning  anxiety  had  sprung 
up  in  his  breast,  he  was  answered  only  by  a  gloomy 
silence.  He  did  not  know,  even  on  the  morning  of  his 
release  from  solitary  confinement,  that  the  all-enduring 
companion  of  his  better  days  had  come  to  cheer  his 
anxious  eyes  with  her  presence.  Soon  after  daylight  of 
this  morning  the  door  of  his  cell  turned  heavily  on  its 
hinges,  and  he  was  brought  out  among  his  fellows,  and 
heard  again  the  sweetest  music  that  had  ever  fallen  upon 
his  ear,  the  music  of  the  human  voice.  A  stronger  thrill 
of  pleasure  had  never  passed  through  his  frame.  He  felt 
as  though  he  could  remain  thus  shut  out  from  the  rest  of 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.  495 

the  world  for  ever,  so  that  he  could  see  and  talk  with  his 
fellow-men.  He  did  not  then  think  of  the  keen  delight 
that  awaited  him,  for  in  the  first  impulse  of  selfish  grati 
fication  he  had  forgotten  the  being  who  loved  him  better 
than  life. 

An  hour  had  not  passed  when  he  was  again  called  for. 
The  door  of  a  private  apartment  in  the  keeper's  house 
was  thrown  open,  and  he  entered  alone.  There  was  but 
one  being  present :  a  pale,  haggard  woman,  poorly  clad, 
who  tottered  towards  him  with  extended  arms.  At  that 
moment  both  hearts  were  too  full,  and  their  lips  were 
sealed  in  silence.  But  oh  !  how  eagerly  did  each  bind  the 
other  in  a  long,  long  embrace  !  It  seemed  as  if  their  arms 
would  never  be  unlocked.  For  one  hour  were  they  left 
thus  alone.  But  how  were  years  crowded  into  that  hour; 
years  of  endurance — terrible  endurance! 

It  seemed  scarcely  one-tenth  of  that  short  time,  when 
Mrs.  Warburton  was  summoned  away,  but  with  the  kind 
permission  to  visit  her  husband  at  the  same  hour  every 
day.  Slowly  she  passed  beneath  the  ponderous  gate,  and 
still  more  slowly  moved  away,  thinking  how  long  it  would 
be  before  another  day  had  passed,  bringing  another  blessed 
interview. 

The  case  of  Warburton  and  his  faithful  wife  soon  came 
to  the  ears  of  the  governor,  and  he  having  expressed  con 
siderable  sympathy  for  them,  the  fact  was  soon  made 
known  to  Mrs.  Warburton,  who  was  recommended  to 
petition  him  in  person  for  a  remission  of  the  sentence.  The 
hint  was  no  sooner  given  than  acted  upon,  and  after  a 
delay  of  several  months  of  hope  and  fear,  to  the  joy  of 
her  heart,  she  found  her  husband  at  liberty. 

In  some  of  his  former  business  or  gambling  transactions 
he  had  become  possessed  of  a  clear  title  to  three  hundred 
acres  of  land,  upon  which  was  a  log-cabin,  situated  about 
thirty  miles  eastward  from  the  capital  of  the  state,  and 
nearly  upon  the  national  road.  Searching  among  his 
papers,  still  preserved  by  his  wife,  he  found  the  deed,  and 
as  nothing  better  offered,  he  started  with  his  family  and 
but  ten  dollars,  to  begin  the  world  anew  as  a  backwoods 
farmer.  The  few  articles  of  furniture  which  his  wife  had 
preserved,  served  to  render  the  dilapidated  cabin,  in  which 
was  not  a  single  pane  of  glass,  sash,  or  shutter,  barely 


496  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

comfortable.  It  was  early  in  the  spring  when  they  re 
moved,  and  though  the  right  time  for  planting  corn  and 
the  ordinary  table  vegetables,  yet  it  would  be  months 
before  they  would  be  fit  to  use.  In  the  mean  time,  a  sub 
sistence  must  be  had.  The  quickest  way  to  obtain  food 
Warburton  found  in  the  use  of  his  rifle,  for  wild  turkeys 
and  deer  abounded  in  the  forest.  He  also  managed  to  take 
a  few  dozen  turkeys  now  and  then  to  a  neighbouring  town, 
and  dispose  of  them  for  corn-meal, 'flour,  and  groceries. 
In  about  a  month  he  was  enabled  to  sell  one  hundred  acres 
of  his  land  for  three  hundred  dollars,  one  hundred  in 
money,  and  the  balance  in  necessary  things  for  stocking 
a  farm.  He  was  now  fairly  started  again,  with  a  cow,  a 
horse,  and  all  requisite  agricultural  implements. 

Mrs.  Warburton  did  not  feel  satisfied  in  her  own  mind 
that  this  sudden  relief  from  daily  pressing  want  would  be 
a  real  benefit  to  them.  She  had  learned  to  suspect  the 
reformation  which  was  effected  by  the  force  of  external 
circumstances,  while  no  salutary  change  in  the  will  was 
going  on.  For  some  time,  however,  she  had  every  reason 
to  be  encouraged.  Her  husband  was  industrious,  and 
careful  to  make  the  best  he  possibly  could  out  of  his  farm, 
and  was  kind  and  attentive  to  her  and  his  children.  Their 
garden,  as  the  summer  wore  away,  presented  a  rich  supply 
of  vegetables,  and  their  corn  and  potatoes  in  the  fall 
yielded  enough  for  their  use  during  the  winter,  besides 
several  bushels  for  sale. 

The  winter,  however,  did  not  pass  away  without  seve 
ral  indications  on  the  part  of  Warburton  of  a  disposition 
to  indulge  in  the  pleasures  of  the  bottle.  There  had  been, 
in  the  course  of  the  summer,  a  tavern  erected,  about  a 
mile  from  his  dwelling,  on  the  national  road  ;  and  here, 
during  the  dull  winter  months,  he  too  frequently  resorted, 
to  pass  away  the  hours,  with  such  persons  as  are  usually 
to  be  found  at  these  haunts  of  idleness. 

The  income  of  this  house,  as  a  place  of  accommodation 
for  travellers,  was  very  small,  for  within  four  miles  of  i; 
stood  a  tavern  and  stage-house,  kept  in  a  style  that  had 
made  it  known  to  the  travelling  public.  It  was  simply  a 
receptacle  for  the  odd  change  of  the  neighbours,  at  times 
when  they  had  an  hour  or  two  to  spare  from  business. 
Gradually,  its  business  increased,  and  as  gradually  the 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.          497 

farms  of  one  or  two  individuals  in  the  neighbourhood,  who 
were,  more  frequently  than  others,  to  be  found  at  the 
tavern,  evinced  a  corresponding  decrease  in  their  flourish 
ing  condition.  Fences  that  never  wanted  a  panel  were 
now  broken  in  many  places;  and  barns  that  never  ad 
mitted  a  drop  of  rain,  now  leaked  at  a  hundred  pores. 
Once,  there  was  an  air  of  cheerfulness  and  plenty  around 
their  dwellings;  now,  wives  and  children  looked,  the  for 
mer  troubled  and  broken  in  spirits,  the  latter  dirty  and 
neglected.  Where  once  reigned  peace  and  quietness, 
existed  wrangling  and  strife. 

During  the  succeeding  farming  season,  Warburton  gave 
considerable  attention — cultivating  his  ground,  which  in 
the  fall  yielded  him  an  abundant  return.  Still,  during  the 
summer,  he  visited  the  "White  Hall  Tavern"  too  fre 
quently,  and  was  too  often  under  the  bewildering  and 
exciting  influence  of  liquor.  The  next  winter  tended 
greatly  to  complete  the  work  of  dissipation,  which  had 
been  commenced  a  year  before.  Frequently  he  would 
come  home  so  much  intoxicated  as  to  be  lost  to  all  reason. 
At  such  times  he  was  not  the  stupid,  good-natured,  drunken 
fool  that  is  often  met  with ;  he  was  then  a  cruel,  unrea 
sonable  and  exacting  tyrant.  His  poor  wife  and  children 
did  not  only  suffer  from  his  wordy  ill  temper,  but  had  to 
endure  in  silence  his  blows,  and  often  tremble  even  for 
their  lives.  When  sober,  an  indistinct  remembrance  of 
his  cruelties  and  other  bad  conduct,  instead  of  softening 
his  feelings  towards  his  family,  made  him  moodily  silent, 
or  cross  and  snappish  if  a  word  were  said  to  him. 

The  constant  and  almost  daily  drain  of  small  change 
for  liquor,  had  nearly  exhausted  all  the  money  in  the  house 
long  before  the  winter  was  over.  The  accommodating 
landlord  seemed  to  discover,  as  by  instinct,  this  condition 
of  things,  and  encouraged  Warburton  to  run  up  a  score. 
He  well  knew  that  at  any  time  it  was  easy  to  get  the  pay 
ment  out  of  a  man  who  had  a  good  farm,  well  stocked. 
Not  so  much  for  the  money  to  be  made  at  the  business,  as 
for  the  purpose  of  attracting  more  persons  to  his  tavern, 
the  landlord  of  the  "White  Hall"  kept  a  small  stone.  At 
this  store,  Warburton,  long  before  the  winter  was  over, 
had  also  made  a  pretty  large  bill.  As  if  to  atone  for  his 
unkindness  to,  and  neglect  of  his  family,  he  would  rarely 

61 


498  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

return  from  his  voluntary  visits  at  the  tavern,  without 
bringing  home  something.  A  few  pounds  of  sugar  to-day, 
some  cheese  or  fish  to-morrow,  or  some  dried  fruit  on  the 
day  after.  The  excuse,  that  such  and  such  a  thing  was 
wanted,  was  often  made  to  get  away  to  the  public  house, 
and  thus  scarcely  a  day  passed  without  a  dollar  or  two 
being  entered  against  him  on  the  books  of  the  smiling  land 
lord. 

When  the  spring  opened,  and  his  bill  was  made  out, 
much  to  his  surprise,  he  found  his  account  to  be  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars !  After  some  two  or  three  weeks' 
pondering  on  the  matter,  during  which  time  he  was  cross 
and  sulky  at  home,  two  fine  cows  and  one  of  his  best 
horses  were  quietly  transferred  from  his  pasture  to  the 
more  capacious  one  of  the  landlord  of  the  "  White  Hall ;" 
and  thus  his  account  was  squared  with  Boniface. 

The  discouragement  consequent  upon  such  a  reduction 
of  his  stock,  tended  to  make  him  less  industrious  and  less 
pleasant.  He  was  constantly  grumbling  about  his  expen 
sive  family,  and  could  not  afford  to  send  his  two  oldest 
children  to  a  school  just  opened  in  the  neighbourhood, 
although  the  master  offered  to  take  them  both  for  five  dol 
lars  a  quarter.  His  wife,  he  said,  could  teach  them  at 
home.  And  in  this  she  was  not  neglectful,  as  far  as  her 
time  allowed. 

How  rarely  does  the  drunkard,  when  once  fairly  started, 
stop  in  his  downward  course !  How  similar  is  the  history 
of  each  one !  "Neglect  of  business — neglect  of  family — 
confirmed  idleness — abuse  of  family — waste  of  property — • 
and  finally,  abject  poverty. 

In  less  than  three  years  from  the  day  on  which  he 
breathed  the  air  again  as  a  free  man — free,  through  the 
untiring  assiduity  of  his  neglected  but  faithful  wife,  he 
struck  her  to  the  ground,  and  unregardful  of  all  the  ties  of 
nature,  left  her  alone  with  her  children,  in  the  wilds  of  the 
west,  after  having  made  over  house  and  farm  to  the  land 
lord  of  the  "  White  Hall,"  for  fifty  dollars  and  his  bill  at 
the  bar. 

Day  after  day  did  his  poor  wife  wait  and  look  for  him 
to  return,  until  even  hope  failed,  and  she  at  last,  with  a 
heavy  heart,  commenced  the  task  of  recalling  her  own 
energies  in  aid  of  the  little  ones  around  her. 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.          499 

But  she  soon  found  her  condition  to  be  far  worse  than 
she  had  imagined.  But  a  few  days  passed  after  her  hus 
band  had  left  her  before  the  hard-hearted  tavern-keeper 
came,  and  removed  everything  but  the  house  in  which  she 
lived  from  off  the  place,  and  then  gave  her  notice  that  she 
must  also  remove,  and  in  three  weeks,  as  he  had  rented 
the  farm  to  a  man  who  wished  to  take  immediate  posses 
sion. 

Hope,  the  kind  and  ever  attendant  angel  of  the  dis 
tressed,  for  more  than  a  week  seemed  ready  to  depart ;  but 
at  the  end  of  that  time,  a  faint  desire  to  return  to  her 
native  city  began  to  grow  into  a  resolution,  and  by  the 
time  a  second  week  had  passed  away,  she  had  fully 
resolved  to  set  out  upon  the  journey. 

But  she  had  only  twenty  dollars,  after  disposing  of  the 
few  things  their  rapacious  creditor  had  left  them,  and  with 
this  she  had  to  go  a  journey  of  nearly  five  hundred  miles, 
with  three  children,  the  oldest  about  twelve  years  of  age. 
But  when  once  her  mind  is  made  up,  there  are  few  things 
a  resolute  mother  will  not  undertake  for  her  children. 

By  persevering  in  her  applications,  day  after  day,  to  the 
wagoners  on  the  national  road,  she  at  length  so  far  pre 
vailed  on  one  of  them  as  to  let  her  and  her  children  ride 
as  far  as  Zanesville,  for  the  trifle  of  a  dollar  or  two,  in  his 
wagon. 

In  the  true  spirit  of  success,  she  looked  only  at  the  pre 
sent  difficulty,  reserving  thought  and  attention  for  all  suc 
ceeding  difficulties,  whenever  they  might  come.  In  this 
spirit  she  cut  herself  loose  from  her  place  in  the  west,  and 

started  for ,  utterly  unable  to  say  how  she  should 

ever  reach  the  desired  spot. 

For  the  first  day  or  two,  the  wagoner  held  no  conversa 
tion  with  her  ;  he  had  been  unable  to  resist  the  promptings 
of  his  kind  feelings  in  favour  of  one  who  had  asked  him 
for  aid,  although  he  had  much  rather  not  have  given  her 
a  place  in  his  wagon.  By  degrees,  however,  his  temper 
changed,  and  he  occasionally  asked  a  question,  or  made  a 
passing  remark ;  and  by  the  time  he  had  reached  Zanes 
ville,  he  had  become  so  interested  in  her  case,  that  he 
refused  to  take  the  stipulated  price,  and  kindly  offered  to 

carry  her  as  far  as  Wheeling,  and  to • — ,  if  he  found 

it  to  his  interest  to  go  there. 


500  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

The  way  thus  providentially  opened  for  her,  few  obsta 
cles  remained,  and  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  she  found 
herself  again  in  the  home  of  her  childhood,  the  dear  spot 
that  had  lived  in  her  memory,  green  and  inviting,  for 
years. 

But  how  changed  was  the  poor  sufferer  !  But  a  very 
few  dollars  of  her  money  was  left.  The  fatigue  of  travel 
ling  so  long  and  in  so  uncomfortable  a  manner,  had  gradu 
ally  shaken  the  props  of  a  feeble  body ;  and  by  the  time 
she  looked  again  upon  the  old,  familiar  places,  her  form 
was  drooping  with  sickness. 

Slowly  she  descended  from  the  wagon,  received  her 
children,  one  by  one,  from  the  hands  of  the  wagoner, 
thanked  him  with  a  tearful  look,  and  tottered  away.  But 
where  could  she  go  ?  She  had  neither  home,  nor  money, 
nor  friends — was  sick  and  faint.  Years  before,  she  had 
tripped  lightly  along  the  very  street  through  which  she  now 
dragged  her  weary  limbs.  She  even  passed  by  the  same 
house,  and  heard  the  light  laughter  of  thoughtless  voices, 
from  the  same  window  from  which  she  had  once  looked 
forth  in  earlier  years,  a  joyful  and  light-hearted  creature. 
How  familiar  did  that  dear  spot  seem  !  but  how  agonizing 
the  contrast  that  forced  itself  upon  her !  Little  did  the 
merry  maiden  who  looked  out  upon  the  pale  mother,  with 
drooping  form  and  soiled  garments,  who  gazed  up  so  ear 
nestly  towards  her,  imagine,  that  but  a  few  years  before, 
that  poor  creature  looked  forth  from  that  same  window,  a 
glad-hearted  girl. 

Scarcely  able  to  act  or  decide  rationally,  for  her  head 
ached  intensely,  and  she  was  burning  with  fever,  Mrs. 
Warburton  wandered  about  the  streets  with  her  three  chil 
dren,  one  a  boy  about  twelve  years  old,  the  other  a  little 
girl  about  nine,  and  the  third,  a  little  one  tottering  by  her 
side,  scarce  two  years  old.  All  at  once,  as  she  turned  her 

steps  into street,  her  eye  caught  sight  of  the  tall 

poplars  that  indicated  the  home  of  the  homeless.  "  I  have 
no  home  but  this,"  she  murmured  to  herself,  and  turned 
her  steps  instinctively  towards  the  dark  mass  of  buildings 

that  stood  near  the  present  intersection  of and • 

streets. 

"  Where  is  your  permit  ?"  said  the  keeper,  as  she  falter- 
ingly  asked  for  admission. 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.          501 

"  I  have  none,"  was  the  faint  reply. 

"We  cannot  take  you,  unless  you  bring  a  permit  from 
one  of  the  commissioners." 

"  I  don't  know  any  commissioner." 

"  Where  are  you  from  ?" 

"  I  have  just  come  to  town  from  the  west,  and  am  too 
sick  to  do  anything.  I  feel  faint,  and  unable  to  go  farther. 
Can  you  not  admit  me,  and  let  application  be  made  to  the 
commissioners  for  me?" 

The  appearance  of  Mrs.  Warburton  too  plainly  indi 
cated  her  sick  condition,  and  the  keeper  thought  it  best  to 
admit  her  for  the  present.  A  meeting  of  the  commission 
ers  was  held  on  the  same  afternoon,  and  a  formal  admis 
sion  given. 

The  first  indication  that  Mrs.  W.  had,  that  she  was  no 
longer  at  liberty  to  choose  or  think  for  herself,  was  the 
entire  separation  of  her  children  from  her.  True,  she  was 
soon  too  ill  to  attend  to  them,  but  that  would  have  made 
no  difference.  After  a  dangerous  illness  of  many  weeks, 
during  most  of  which  time  she  was  insensible  to  every 
thing  around  her,  she  was  again  able  to  droop  about  a 
little.  Her  first  questions,  after  the  healthy  reaction  of 
body  and  mind,  were  about  her  children  ;  her  first  request, 
to  see  them.  But  this  was  denied.  "  They  are  doing 
well  enough,"  was  all  the  answer  she  could  get. 

"  But  cannot  I  see  Emma,  my  little  one  ?  Do  let  me 
see  her !" 

"  It  is  contrary  to  the  rules  of  the  institution.  You  can 
not  see  her  now." 

"  When  can  I  see  her?" 

"  I  don't  know," — and  the  nurse  of  the  sick  woman  left 
her  and  went  to  attend  somewhere  else,  utterly  insensible 
to  the  keen  agony  of  the  mother's  heart.  Was  she  not  a 
pauper  ?  What  right  had  she  to  human  feelings  ? 

But  a  mother's  love  is  not  to  be  chained  down  to  rules, 
or  circumscribed  by  the  narrow  policy  of  chartered  expe 
diency.  As  Mrs.  Warburton  slowly  gained  strength,  a 
quicker  perception  of  her  situation  grew  upon  her,  and 
she  soon  determined  to  know  all  about  her  children.  In 
vain  had  she  asked  to  see  them ;  but  each  denial  only  in 
creased  the  desire,  and  confirmed  her  resolutions  to  see 
them  and  know  all  about  them. 


502  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

One  day,  when  she  could  walk  about  a  httle,  a  day  on 
which  she  knew  the  board  of  commissioners  were  in  ses 
sion,  she  watched  her  opportunity,  and  when  the  nurse 
was  attending  in  another  part  of  the  room,  stole  quietly 
out,  and  soon  made  her  way  to  the  commissioners'  room. 

"  Gentlemen,  a  mother  asks  your  indulgence,"  was  her 
appeal,  as  the  keeper  checked  her  entrance. 

0  Let  her  enter,  Mr. ,"  said  one  of  them. 

"  What  is  your  wish,  good  woman  V  continued  the  first 
speaker. 

« I  want  to  see  my  children." 

Her  voice  was  so  low  and  mournful,  and  her  pale  face, 
which  still  retained  many  traces  of  former  beauty,  ex 
pressed  so  strongly  her  maternal  anxiety,  that  the  hearts 
of  all  were  touched. 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  few  moments,  and  after 
some  whispered  words,  directed  that  she  should  be  allowed 
to  see  her  children  for  half  an  hour  each  day. 

The  keeper  now  called  their  attention  to  certain  of  their 
proceedings,  some  weeks  past,  and  they  found  that  places 
had  been  obtained  for  two  of  them,  the  oldest  boy,  and  the 
little  girl,  scarce  ten  years  old. 

"  We  have  obtained  good  places  for  two  of  your  chil 
dren,  madam ;  the  other,  aged  two  years,  you  can  have 
under  your  own  care,  while  here." 

"  And  all  without  allowing  me  one  word,  as  to  who 
should  take  them,  or  where  they  should  go  I  My  poor 
little  Mary,  what  can  you  do  as  a  servant  ?" 

"  They  are  well  provided  for,  madam.  You  can  now 
retire." 

Mrs.  Warburton  did  retire,  and  with  a  bleeding  heart. 
Her  little  Emma  was  restored  to  her,  and  was  constantly 
by  her  side.  She  had  been  two  months  in  the  alms-house, 
when  she  was  strong  enough  to  work,  and  by  a  rule  of 
he  place,  she  had  to  work  two  months,  to  pay  for  her 
Keeping  while  sick,  before  she  would  be  allowed  to  go  out, 
and  maintain  herself. 

Slowly  and  heavily  passed  the  hours  for  two  weary 
months,  when  she  presented  herself  for  a  release  from  im 
prisonment. 

"  Where  can  I  find  my  children  ?"  she  asked  of  the 
keeper,  as  she  was  about  to  leave. 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.  503 

•*  It  is  against  the  rule  to  give  any  such  information  in 
regard  to  pauper  children.  And  in  this  particular  instance, 
it  was  the  request  of  both  persons  taking  your  children, 
that  you  should  not  be  told  where  they  were,  as  they 
wished  to  raise  them  without  being  troubled  by  foreign 
influence." 

The  mother  attempted  no  remonstrance,  but  turned 
away,  and  homeless,  and  almost  penniless,  leading  her 
little  one  by  the  hand,  again  entered  the  city  where  her 
happiest  years  had  been  spent. 

As  she  passed  down  a  street,  she  saw  on  the  door  of  an 
old  brick  house,  the  words  "  A  room  to  let."  She  made 
application,  and  engaged  it,  at  two  dollars  a  month.  A 
pine  table,  and  an  old  chair,  she  bought  at  a  second 
hand  furniture  store  for  a  dollar ;  and  with  the  other  dollar 
she  had  left,  the  pittance  saved  from  the  twenty  dollars 
she  had  when  she  left  Ohio,  she  bought  some  bread,  dried 
meat,  milk,  &c.  She  had  no  bed,  and  was  for  some  time 
compelled  to  sleep  with  her  child  on  the  hard  floor. 

The  art  of  making  cigars,  which  she  had  learned  years 
before,  and  which  had  more  than  once  stood  between  her 
and  want,  was  again  brought  into  use.  She  applied  at  a 
tobacconist's,  and  obtained  work.  Giving  all  diligence, 
day  and  night,  she  was  able  to  make  five  or  six  dollars 
every  week,  with  which,  in  a  short  time,  she  gathered  a 
few  comfortable  things  about  her,  among  which  was  a 
bed. 

Two  months  had  passed  since  she  left  the  alms-house, 
and  still  she  could  gain  no  tidings  of  her  children.  Daily, 
for  an  hour  or  two,  had  she  made  search  for  them,  but  in 
the  only  way  she  could  devise,  that  of  wandering  about 
the  streets,  in  hopes  of  finding  them  out  on  some  errand. 
As  the  winter  drew  on,  she  became  more  and  more 
anxious  and  concerned.  If  her  little  girl,  who  was  always 
a  delicate  child,  should  be  in  unkind  hands,  she  sickened 
at  heart  to  think  how  much  she  would  suffer.  Night  after 
night  would  she  dream  of  the  dear  child ;  and  always  saw 
her  in  some  condition  of  extreme  hardship. 

One  night  she  thought  she  saw  little  Mary  sitting  on 
the  curb-stone.  She  went  up  to  her,  and  dreaming  that 
it  was  very  cold,  found  her  bare-foot,  thinly  clad,  and 
almost  perishing.  The  child  threw  her  little  arms,  naked 


504  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

and  icy.  cold  about  her  neck,  and  as  her  well-known  voice 
sounded  in  her  ears,  she  awoke. 

She  slept  no  more  through  that  night,  and  soon  after 
breakfast,  started  out,  being  unable,  through  the  uneasiness 
of  her  mind,  to  work.  Without  questioning  the  reason 
why,  she  naturally  wandered  in  the  direction  indicated  in 
her  dream.  When  near  the  place,  she  was  startled  by 
the  piercing  screams  of  a  child  that  seemed  in  great 
agony,  and  there  was  entreaty  and  supplication  mingled 
in  the  tones.  The  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  her  own 
child.  She  knew  it  was  her  own  child ;  a  mother's  ear  is 
never  deceived.  Darting  towards  the  spot,  she  found  a 
bucket  of  hot  water  spilled  upon  the  pavement,  from  which 
the  vapour  was  rising  in  a  cloud,  and  glancing  her  eye 
down  the  alley,  she  saw  her  little  one  half-dragged,  half- 
carried,  by  the  arm,  by  a  tall,  masculine  woman,  who 
seemed  in  a  violent  rage.  Following  like  the  wind,  she 
reached  the  dwelling  of  the  virago  as  she  entered  and 
dashed  the  child  upon  the  floor.  Just  as  Mrs.  Warburton 
came  up,  and  was  lifting  it,  the  woman  had  obtained  a 
stout  cow-hide,  and  was  turning  to  lacerate  the  back  of 
the  little  one,  as  she  had  often  done  before,  her  face  red 
and  expressing  the  most  wicked  passions. 

At  once  Mrs.  Warburton  felt  that  only  in  retreat  was 
their  safety,  and  catching  up  the  child  in  her  arms,  she 
darted  out  as  quickly  as  she  had  entered.  Not  more 
swiftly,  however,  did  she  go,  than  followed  the  enraged 
woman  to  whom  this  child  of  nine  years  old  had  been 
bound  to  do  the  work  of  a  woman.  Finding  herself 
gained  upon  by  the  person  in  pursuit,  she  looked  about  for 
a  place  of  retreat,  and  seeing  "  Magistrate's  Office"  on  a 
sign,  she  darted  into  that  lower  court  of  justice.  Here  she 
was  safe  from  molestation,  until  some  decision  was  made 
in  the  case,  by  those  deputed  to  act.  A  crowd  soon 
gathered  about,  attracted  by  the  strange  sight  .of  a  woman 
flying  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  and  another  in  hot  pursuit. 
The  magistrate,  who  was  a  humane  man,  and  held  his 
office  in  a  part  of  his  dwelling,  instinctively  perceived  that 
the  mother  and  her  child  needed  kindness  and  considera 
tion,  and  had  them,  after  examination,  removed  back  into 
his  dwelling,  and  placed  under  the  care  of  his  wife,  while 
he  entered  more  fully  into  the  merits  of  the  case. 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.          505 

When  Mrs.  Warburton  was  sufficiently  at  ease  to  ex 
amine  her  child,  she  found  her  a  pitiable  object  indeed. 
Her  face,  neck,  and  body  were  dreadfully  scalded,  and 
her  back  was  in  scars  and  welts  all  over,  and  in  some 
places  with  the  skin  broken  and  festering.  It  appeared, 
from  the  statement  of  the  child,  that  the  woman  she  lived 
with  had  placed  on  her  head  a  bucket  of  scalding  water 
for  her  to  carry  to  a  store,  which  she  was  going  to  scrub 
out.  The  heavy  weight  on  her  head  caused  her  to  lose 
her  balance  and  fall,  when  the  whole  contents  of  the 
bucket  were  spilled  over  her  face  and  neck,  and  penetrated 
through  her  clothes  to  the  skin,  in  all  directions. 

Of  course,  she  was  suffering  the  most  excruciating  pain. 
Medical  aid  was  called  in  by  the  magistrate,  and  every 
attention  extended  to  the  little  sufferer,  who  seemed  to 
forget  her  pain  in  the  consciousness  of  her  mother's  pre 
sence. 

The  inhuman  wretch  who  had  thus  brutally  maltreated 
a  mere  child,  enraged  to  a  state  of  insanity  in  finding  her 
self  thwarted  in  obtaining  the  child,  made  an  appeal  to 
the  city  court,  then  in  session,  and  had  all  the  parties  pre 
sent.  It  needed  but  this  to  give  Mrs.  W.  uncontrolled 
possession  of  little  Mary.  The  condition  in  which  the 
court  found  the  child,  added  to  the  touching  story  of  her 
mother,  caused  an  instant  cancelling  of  the  indenture  by 
•which  the  unfeeling  woman  claimed  possession  of  her. 

In  a  few  days  after,  Mrs.  Warburton  found  her  boy, 
who,  much  to  her  satisfaction,  had  a  good  place,  with 
which  he  was  pleased,  and  was  learning  a  good  trade. 
She  was  now  fairly  started  again,  and  as  her  spirits  re 
vived,  her  health  became  much  improved.  Month  after 
month  passed  away,  and  brought  with  it  new  sources  of 
comfort,  new  causes  for  satisfaction.  Of  her  husband, 
she  now  thought  with  no  affection.  It  is  true,  earlier  feel 
ings  would  sometimes  return,  but  with  no  force,  and  after 
moving  the  waters  of  her  quiet  spirit  for  a  moment,  would 
tremble  into  rest 

When  a  man  once  extinguishes  his  own  self-respect,  he 
is  a  burden  to  society.  But  when  a  husband  and  father 
descends  so  low,  he  becomes  a  curse  to  his  family.  After 
abusing  them,  and  making  their  condition  so  wretched 

62 


506  THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR. 

that  even  he  cannot  share  it,  he  will  forsake  the  wife  of 
his  bosom  and  the  children  of  his  early  love,  and  leave 
them  to  the  tender  mercies  of  strangers.  But  let  the  mo 
ther  gather  her  little  ones  around  her,  and  by  toiling  early 
and  late,  make  their  condition  comfortable,  and  the  bru 
talized  wretch  will  return  and  consume  the  food  of  his 
children,  and  abuse  them  if  they  complain. 

A  year  had  passed  away,  when  early  one  evening  in 
the  fall  of  the  year,  a  man  pushed  open  the  door  of  the 
room  she  occupied,  and  with  a  "  well  Julia,"  took  a  chair, 
and  made  himself  at  home  without  further  ceremony. 
Though  dirty  and  ragged,  with  a  beard  of  a  week's 
growth,  and  half  drunk,  Mrs.  Warburton  could  not  mis 
take  the  form  of  her  wretched  husband. 

"  O,  husband !  can  this  be  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  Julia,  this  is  me.  I  've  come  back  at  last.  I  've 
tried  hard  to  make  something  for  you  and  the  children, 
but  it  is  no  use,  fate  is  against  me ;  so  here  I  am  again, 
poor  as  ever.  But  give  me  something  to  eat,  for  I  'm 
hungry  as  a  badger." 

******* 

Six  years  had  passed  away  since  Warburton  had  re 
turned,  and  the  wretchedness  which  had  been  with  him  in 
his  absence,  he  brought  as  an  abiding  guest  to  the  dwelling 
of  his  wife.  During  that  time,  she  had  endured  sickness, 
hunger,  abuse,  and  been  nigh  unto  death ;  but  through  it 
all  she  had  come  with  a  heart  still  unsubdued,  though 
almost  broken.  For  her  children's  sakes,  two  more  of 
whom  had  been  added  in  that  time,  she  had  stood  up  and 
breasted  the  storm. 

At  last,  her  miserable  husband,  sunk  in  the  lowest  depths 
of  drunkenness  and  degradation,  died,  as  he  had  lived. 

It  was  the  dawn  of  a  brighter  day  for  Mrs.  Warburton 
when  the  spirit  of  her  husband  took  its  flight  to  the  world 
of  spirits.  Her  son  was  nearly  free  from  his  trade,  and 
her  oldest  girl  could  assist  her  greatly  in  the  house,  as  well 
as  by  earning  something  for  their  support. 

Content  and  health  having  taken  up  their  abode  with 
her,  we  will  leave  her  to  fill  up  her  allotted  space  in  life 
unobtrusively  and  peacefully. 

The  story  of  Mrs.  Warburton  has  been  introduced  as 


THE    MAIDEN'S    ERROR.          507 

another  illustration  of  the  ill  effects  which  so  often  arise 
from  the  want  of  watchfulness  on  the  part  of  parents,  in 
regard  to  the  characters  of  the  young  men  who  are 
allowed  to  visit  and  play  upon  the  affections  of  their 
daughters.  It  also  shows  how  unconquerable  is  a  mo 
ther's  love.  Here  a  weak,  foolish  girl,  by  strong  trial, 
becomes  a  woman  with  a  strength  of  mind  that  nothing 
can  subdue,  and,  as  a  mother,  overcomes  difficulties  from 
which  most  men  would  shrink  in  despair. 


J.  W.  BRADLEY, 
Wo.  48  North  Fourth  Street, 


PUBLISHES  THE  FOLLOWING  WORKS  BY  T.  S.   ABTHTTR. 
ARTHUR'S   SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND   CHARACTER,   an 
octaro  volume  of  over  400  pages,  beautifully  illustrated,  and  bound  in  the 
best  English  muslin,  gilt. 

NOTICES    OF    THE     PRESS. 

The  present  volume,  containing  more  than  four  hundred  finely  printed 
octavo  pages,  is  illustrated  by  spirited  engravings,  and  made  particularly 
valuable  to  those  who  like  to  "  see  the  face  of  him  they  talk  withal," 
by  a  correct  likeness  of  the  author,  finely  engraved  on  steel.  —  Neat's 
Gazette. 

In  the  princely  mansions  of  the  Atlantic  merchants,  and  in  the  rude  log 
cabins  of  the  backwoodsman,  the  name  of  Arthur  is  equally  known  and 
cherished  as  the  friend  of  virtue.  —  Graham's  Magazine. 

We  would  not  exchange  our  copy  of  these  sketches,  with  its  story  of 
"  The  Methodist  Preacher,"  for  any  one  of  the  gilt-edged  and  embossed 
annuals  which  we  have  yet  seen.  —  Lady's  National  Magazine. 

The  first  story  in  the  volume,  entitled  "  The  Methodist  Preacher,  or 
Lights  and  Shadows  in  the  Life  of  an  Itinerant,"  is  alone  worth  the 
price  of  the  work.  —  Evening  Bulletin. 

It  is  emphatically  a  splendid  work.  —  Middletown  Whig. 

Its  worth  and  cheapness  should  place  it  in  every  person's  hands  who 
desire  to  read  an  interesting  book.  —  Odd  Fellow,  Boonsboro. 

"  The  Methodist  Preacher,"  «  Seed  Time  and  Harvest,"  "  Dyed  in 
the  Wool,"  are  full  of  truth,  as  well  as  instruction,  and  any  one  of  them 
is  worth  the  whole  price  of  the  volume.  —  Lowell  Daystar,  Rev.  D.  C. 
Eddy,  Editor. 

There  is  a  fascination  about  these  sketches  which  so  powerfully  inter 
ests  the  reader,  that  few  who  commence  one  of  them  will  part  with  it 
till  it  is  concluded  ;  and  they  will  bear  reading  repeatedly.  —  Norfolk  and 
Portsmouth  Herald. 

Those  who  have  not  perused  these  model  stories  have  a  rich  feast  in 
waiting,  and  we  shall  be  happy  if  we  can  be  instrumental  in  pointing 
them  to  it.  —  Family  Visitor,  Madison,  Geo. 

No  library  for  family  reading  should  be  considered  complete  without 
this  volume,  which  is  as  lively  and  entertaining  in  its  character  as  it  is 
salutary  in  its  influence.  —  N.  Y.  Tribune. 

The  work  is  beautifully  illustrated.  Those  who  are  at  all  acquainted 
with  Arthur's  writings  need  hardly  be  told  that  the  present  work  is  a 
prize  to  whoever  possess  it.  —  New  York  Sun. 

We  know  no  better  book  for  the  table  of  any  family,  whether  regarded 
for  its  neat  exterior  or  valuable  contents.  —  Vox  Populi,  Low. 

The  name  of  the  author  is  in  itself  a  sufficient  recommendation  of  the 
work.  —  Lawrence  Sentinel. 

T.  S.  Arthur  is  one  of  the  best  literary  writers  of  the  age.  —  Watchman, 
Circleville,  Ohio. 

The  name  alone  of  the  author  is  a  sufficient  guaranty  to  the  reading 
public  of  its  surpassing  merit.  —  The  Argus  Gallatin,  Miss. 

Probably  he  has  not  written  a  line  which,  dying,  he  could  wish  to 
erase.  —  Parkersburg  (Fa.)  Gazette. 


*  WORKS  OP  T.  8.  AHTHT7B. 

LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  OF  REAL  LIFE,  with  an  autobiography 
and  portrait  of  the  author,  over  500  pages  octavo,  with  fine  tinted  engra 
vings. 

NOTICES    OF    THE    PRESS. 

In  this  volume  may  be  found  a  "  moral  suasion,"  which  cannot  but 
affect  for  good  all  who  read.  The  mechanical  execution  of  the  work  is 
very  beautiful  throughout. — New  Haven  Palladium. 

It  is  by  far  the  most  valuable  book  ever  published  of  his  works,  inasmuch 
as  it  is  enriched  with  a  very  interesting,  though  brief  autobiography. — 
American  Courier. 

No  family  library  is  complete  without  a  copy  of  this  book. — Scott's 
Weekly  Paper. 

'  No  better  or  worthier  present  could  be  made  to  the  young,  no  offering 
more  pure,  charitable,  and  practicable  could  be  tendered  to  those  who 
are  interested  in  the  truly  benevolent  reforms  of  the  day — Godey's  Lady's 
Book. 

The  paper,  the  engravings,  the  binding,  and  the  literary  contents,  are  all 
calculated  to  make  it  a  favorite. — Penn.  Inquirer. 

This  volume  cannot  be  too  highly  recommended. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

More  good  has  been  effected,  than  by  any  other  single  medium  that  we 
Know  of. — N.  Y.  Sun. 

The  work  should  be  upon  the  centre  table  of  every  parent  in  the  land. — 
National  Temperance  Magazine. 

A  single  story  is  worth  the  price  charged  for  the  book. — Union,  New* 
berryport,  Mass. 

GOLDEN  GRAINS  FROM  LIFE'S  HARVEST  FIELD,  bound  in 
full  gilt,  with  a  beautiful  mezzotint  engraving,  12mo.,  240  pages. 

NOTICES    OF    THE    PBESg. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say,  that  the  Golden  Grains  here  presented  to  the 
reader,  are  such  as  will  be  productive  of  a  far  greater  amount  of  human 
happiness  than  those  in  search  of  which  so  many  are  willing  to  risk 
domestic  peace,  health,  and  even  life  itself,  hi  a  distant  and  inhospitable 
region. 

These  narratives,  like  all  of  those  which  proceed  from  the  same  able 
pen,  are  remarkable  not  only  far  their  entertaining  and  lively  pictures  of 
actual  life,  but  for  their  admirable  moral  tendency. 

It  is  printed  in  excellent  style,  and  embellished  with  a  mezzotint  en 
graving,  We  cordially  recommend  it  to  the  favor  of  our  readers. — 
Godey's  Lady's  Magazine. 

THE  WAY  TO  PROSPER,  AND  OTHER  TALES,  12mo.,  over 
20(1  pages,  with  six  illustrations. 

These  Books  are  sold  exclusively  by  Agents,  to  whom  a  liberal  com 
mission  will  be  paid.  Application  for  Agencies  may  be  made  to  the 
Publisher,  (if  by  letter,  post  paid,)  or  to  the  following  General  Agents: 
L.  F.  Crown,  Lowell,  Mass.,  who  has  control  of  the  sale  in  the  British 
Provinces,  and  all  New  England,  except  Connecticut ;  or  Munsen  Bradley, 
New  Haven,  Conn.,  who  has  control  of  the  sale  in  Connecticut  and  New 
York. 


WILD  SCENES 


WILD    HUNTERS 


OP 

THE  WORLD, 

BY  C.   W.   WEBBER, 

AUTHOR    OP   "  SHOT   IN   THE    EYE,"    "  OLD  HICKS   THE   GUIDE," 

"  CHARLES   WINTERFIELD    PAPERS,"    "  GOLD     MINES 

OF   THE   GILA,"   ETC.   ETC. 

With  Forty-Five  Illustrations  in  Wood-Cnt  and  lithograph. 
J.  W.BRADLEY. 

NO.  48  NOKTH  FOtTRTH   STREET,  PHILADELPHIA. 

XOTICES    OF    THE    PRESS. 

"Here  is  a  Book  to  '  fire  the  blood  of  age'  —  full  of  glorious  picturinga 
of  nature,  in  which  the  wild  realities  of  Border  Life  are  colored  with  the 
vividness  of  the  highest  Romance,  and  in  a  style  —  the  fluent  vigor  and 
dashing  ease  of  which  betrays  through  the  affected  disguise  of  backwood 
bluntness  on  the  part  of  its  author,  a  scholarly  self-possession  and  fami 
liarity  with  the  resources  of  his  tongue,  which  surprises  as  well  as  charms 
the  reader."  —  Graham's  Magazine. 

"The  book  is  a  brilliant  and  dashing  announcement  of  a  noble  enter 
prise,  by  a  gallant  and  adventurous  man,  with  whose  remarkable  career 
the  public  has  been  rendered  familiar  of  late  by  his  own  publications, 
which,  so  far,  surpass  any  thing  cotemporary  of  the  same  general 
character."  —  IV.  Y.  Express. 

"  Spirited,  vigorous,  and  intensely  dramatic."  —  Cour.  and  Enq. 

"  Mr.  Webber  has  spent  more  time  in  the  woods  than  any  one  of  our 
living  writrrs,  and  has  shown  himself  the  most  faithful  and  intense  deli 
neator  of  Wild  Natural  Scenes."  —  Boston  Museum, 

"  In  power  of  faithful  delineation  of  the  Wild  Scenes  of  Border  Life, 
no  man  living  has  equalled  Mr.  Webber."  —  Neal's  Gazette. 

"  The  Border  Tales  and  Legends  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  have  found  at 
last  a  parallel  on  the  new  Continent,  in  these  remarkable  stories,  by  Mr. 
Webber."  —  N.  Y.  Literary  Examiner. 

"  —  Cooper  must  look  out  for  his  laurels.  We  find  in  these  books  thp 
same  stern  and  out-door  realities  of  his  "  Parlor  Indians,"  measured  and 
delineated  with  more  vigor  through  a  single  scene,  that  he  has  managed  to 
dilute  through  volumes."  —  The  Two  Worlds. 

"  Mr.  Webber  is  an  enthusiastic  naturalist,  who  has  spent  many  years  of 
his  life  in  the  woods,  alone  with  nature  ;  and  he  writes  with  the  warmth 
and  enthusiasm  of  one  in  love  with  his  subject."  —  Arthur's  Home  Gazette. 


J.  W.   BRADLEY, 

48  NORTH  FOURTH  STREET, 

PUBLISHES  THE  FOLLOWINSG  WORKS, 


GREAFEVENTS  IN  MODERNSSTORY. 

Comprising  the  MOST  REMARKABLE  DISCOVERIES,  CONQUESTS, 
REVOLUTIONS,  GREAT  BATTLES,  and  other  Thrilling  Incidents, 
chiefly  in  Europe  and  America,  from  the  commencement  of  the 
Sixteenth  Century  to  the  present  time.  Embellished  with  over  • 
500  Engravings  by  W.  CROOME,  and  other  eminent  artists.  The 
following  are  extracts  from  notices  of  the  press  received  by  the 

Publisher. 

NOTICES  OF   THE  PRESS. 

"  We  have  here,  within  the  compass  of  eight  hundred  pages,  the 
history  of  those  events  of  modern  history,  which  have  been  '  big 
with  mighty  consequences/  and  with  which,  therefore,  all  men 
should  become  acquainted.  Beginning  with  the  discovery  of  Ame 
rica,  by  Columbus  —  that  new  starting-point  of  civilization  —  the 
work  proceeds  through  the  history  of  the  various  European  na 
tions,  culling  those  great  periods  when,  either  "by  wars  or  revolu 
tions,  each  nation  began  to  occupy  a  conspicuous  place  in  the  ge 
neral  estimation  of  men,  and  to  make  its  influence  felt  by  those 
without  its  limits.  The  late  revolutions  in  Europe,  the  Mexican 
war,  and  the  gold  discoveries  in  California,  are  rapidly  and  vividly 
sketched.  The  illustrations,  principally  from  designs  by  Croome, 
are  numerous,  well  executed,  serving  to  impress  the  striking 
scenes  and  characters  of  history  upon  the  tablet  of  memory.  The 
whole  work,  in  design  and  execution,  reflects  great  credit  upon  all 
concerned  in  its  production." 

Thrilling  Adventures  among  the   Indians. 

Comprising  the  most  remarkable  Personal  Narratives  of  events 
in  the  early  INDIAN  WARS,  as  well  as  of  Incidents  in  the  re 
cent  Indian  Hostilities  in  Mexico  and  Texas.  Illustrated  with  over 
300  Engravings,  from  designs  by  W,  CROOME,  and  other  distin 

guished  Artists. 

NOTICES  OF   THE  PRESS. 

"  The  matter  contained  in  this  handsome  volume  is  as  well  cal 
culated  to  give  a  correct  idea  of  the  character  of  the  Indians  and 
their  modes  of  life,  as  that  of  any  book  ever  published.  All  that 
gives  a  charm  to  romance  may  be  found  in  the  narrative  contained 
in  this  work,  but  all  of  them  possess  the  never-failing  attractions 
of  truth.  The  sufferings  of  numerous  captives  are  also  detailed, 
together  with  their  contrivances  of  escape  from  their  savage  cap 
tors.  The  illustrations  by  the  well-known  W.  Croome,  are  ex 
cellent  in  design  and  execution,  and  the  printing  and  binding  of 
the  work  are  fine  specimens  of  each  art." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


28971 


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